


Armitage Hux One-Shots!

by starlight_searches



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Modern Era, Other, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 72,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23199787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlight_searches/pseuds/starlight_searches
Summary: Hello! I've started taking requests on my tumblr (starlightsearches). I think I'll separate them by character, so all of the Armitage Hux requests will be added as separate chapters. Let me know what you think!
Relationships: Armitage Hux & You, Armitage Hux/Reader, Armitage Hux/You
Comments: 100
Kudos: 347





	1. Free of Charge

**Author's Note:**

> Hello love I would like to request a Hux x Reader oneshot where the reader interferes with a potential abusive episode from Brendol. He would be so grateful and I just can't handle ittttt thank youuuu
> 
> 😭😭😭😭 Thank you for this! Someone needs to help our boy.
> 
> Requests are open ✨
> 
> Armitage Hux x Reader (No pronouns, babey! This one is gender neutral!)
> 
> Warnings: Both physical and mental abuse, and there’s some language as well.

“Tell me,” Brendol says, breaking the silence that had been threatening to swallow the room whole, “exactly how _idiotic_ can you manage to be?” There’s nothing Armitage can say in response, but his father waits anyways, determined to embarrass him, and the worst part about it is—even after all this time—his tactics still work. Armitage clenches his fists tighter in his lap, determined not to show any weakness.

“General, I-”

“I’m not interested in hearing any excuses, boy!” the man shouts, banging his fist down on the board room table, and a few of the other officers jump at the sound. Armitage refuses to break eye contact with his father, but his palms are becoming slick inside of his leather gloves and the prickling sensation at the back of his neck grows stronger as he anticipates the worst possible outcome. _It’s alright_ , he tries to soothe himself, _he’s all talk. There are still witnesses._ The silence returns, oppressive and heavy and no one will look at Armitage—the other officers flitting their eyes from place to place and refusing to land anywhere near him. They’re all pretending that he’s not there, and somehow that’s worse than being seen as a failure in front of his peers because Brendol is determined to make it so, and he is a man who always gets what he wants.

“Everyone out,” Brendol’s voice is a dangerous hum, and the other men practically trip over themselves as they leap out of their seats. The race to the doorway is quick and quiet, and soon the shuffling stops and Armitage is alone with his father.

“I have given you every opportunity to complete this one simple task, and yet you have failed me still. How can you expect to advance in this organization when you can’t complete one simple _fucking_ task?” Armitage blocks out the crescendos of his father’s voice, and retreats into a safer space, deep in the back of his mind. His father’s words begin to blur together, the same insults and abuse repeated once again. Armitage could still get out of this, if he stays quiet. If he stays firm. After all, Brendol is still wearing his gloves, which means that the worst of it is not yet on the horizon.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy!” His father reaches out too fast for Armitage to dodge, grabbing him by the jaw and holding him tight, forcing him to take in the arrant loathing on Brendol’s face. The grip of his father’s hand burns along his jawline, but he knows it won’t bruise. Brendol has perfected the ability to cause his son pain without leaving any visible markings; he’s had a lifetime to do it. Armitage resists the urge to shift out of his father’s grasp but he’s losing his nerve, and just when the pain reaches a breaking point, his father lets go. A wave of nausea rolls through him as he watches his father begin to remove the leather covering his hands. 

“It seems I have to teach you a lesson, boy, and this will not be one that you soon forget.” Brendol’s gloves hit the table with a soft slap as Armitage braces himself for the first punch, but he can never be sure where his father will strike. Maybe it’s his imagination, but Brendol seems less controlled than the last time, a little more wild, and those bruises had stayed around for weeks; the shame for much longer. Would it be worse? It’s impossible to say, and the only thing Armitage can think of to calm himself is rather disappointing: _it will have to end eventually._

The door slides open without warning, the mechanical swish echoing loudly off the walls in the empty room. Brendol drops his fist and turns to the source of the noise, taking his eyes off Armitage, and he looks to the door as well, curious to see who was brave enough to interrupt the general in a moment like this one.

You’re standing there in the doorway, fresh from your most recent assignment, and for a moment Armitage allows himself to be happy to see you, and happier this time, knowing that you had inadvertently delayed something awful.

“What is it?” Brendol asks, and his demeanor is changed now that he realizes it’s you. He reaches for his gloves and forces them back over his hands, seemingly composed, his previous rage gone, at least for the moment. Armitage isn’t sure if he believes in a higher power, but right now he’s ready to thank the Maker as you stroll through the doorway and into the conference room. There are many bounty hunters employed by the First Order with more experience than you, but you’ve certainly made a name for yourself already, quickly becoming a favorite of his father. This successful mission would be the 33rd that you’ve completed for Brendol … not that Armitage was keeping track.

“Sorry to interrupt, General,” you say, “I just came to report that the target has been eliminated, as requested.”

“Excellent,” Brendol says, and he claps his hands together with approval, “I’ll have the credits transferred to your account immediately.” He reaches for his data pad to initiate the transfer, and Armitage hears him mumble under his breath, “at least someone can do their job right.”

A blush rises to Armitage cheeks—one of the few reactions he hasn’t yet learned how to control—and he hopes that you didn’t hear the taunt. It’s one thing to look incompetent in front of the other officers aboard the ship, but in front of you …

“Thank you, general,” you say, tapping your fingers absentmindedly on the blaster strapped to your thigh as you wait. Your eyes land on Armitage, and he stiffens under your gaze, his neck growing warm under the collar.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” you nod to him, and Armitage can hardly speak. He had been under the impression that you didn’t know who he was, and your acknowledgement, in addition to the relief that his father’s hands had been stayed momentarily, is more than he can currently bear. His throat is dry—he’s not sure what he would say even if he could speak—so he opts to nod instead. Once again Armitage is forced to thank whatever higher power out there that his father is still distracted with the credit transfer. If Brendol noticed the effect you had on him, he would never be able to escape the torment the man would enact.

“The transfer has been initiated,” Brendol drops his data pad back on the table, and any pleasant feeling Armitage had experienced from your recognition has quickly disappeared, replaced with the dread of facing his father alone once again. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I have to deal with my son.”

“Actually, sir, I was hoping I could discuss something with the lieutenant briefly.” 

Armitage’s eyes snap to his father, waiting to see his reaction. It’s obvious that Brendol is surprised by your request, traces of anger flashing across his face, but his father is capable of being charming when needed, and he masks his annoyance.

“Why?” Despite his attempts to cover it, there’s still a hint of disgust in Brendol’s voice, one that always appears when Armitage is brought up, but you don’t seem to notice.

“It’s nothing, really, just a bit of intel I picked up and thought I’d pass along. I know you’re a busy man, General, and I’d love to explain it to you directly but I have urgent business on Hosnian Prime and I need to return to my ship as soon as possible. I thought it might be easier for you if I reported to the Lieutenant now on the way back to the hangar, and he could impart the information to you at a more convenient time.”

Brendol looks to his son, and Armitage tries to seem disappointed, annoyed even, under his father’s gaze. He knows that if Brendol suspects that leaving with you would bring Armitage any kind of pleasure, he would immediately refuse. Apparently his act is sufficient, because Brendol hesitates, and then concedes.

“Very well,” he says, “but we’ll continue this _conversation_ later.” Armitage can’t find any place in his mind to worry about that now; he’s too elated at the thought of spending a moment alone with you, and finally being away from his father.

You walk silently down the corridors of the ship at a leisurely pace, and Armitage grows nervous. Should he say something to you? He tries to muster the courage, but he can’t think of the right words when he’s too busy sneaking glances from the corner of his eye. He thinks he’s being subtle, but you catch him looking and look back, a small smirk on your face.

“There was no intel, in case you were wondering,” you say, “but I thought you might want an excuse to get away.”

“Oh?” Armitage is not feeling very articulate, and it’s the only thing he can manage to say in response as he tries to process all the information he’s being presented: the fact that you know who he is—which is already disorienting enough on its own—and that you recognized the threat Brendol posed, then still put yourself at risk for Armitage’s sake. He’s never had someone look out for him like this before.

“I haven’t known the general for long, but I’ve seen enough to know that he’s a man who has lived to control others through fear,” you look straight ahead as you speak, and Armitage is afraid to hear you talk this way. Statements like that could be seen as treason, even if you weren’t an official member of the Order.

“The general is a good leader,” Armitage says, but it doesn’t sound convincing, even to his own ears, “a strong leader. The one that we need.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” you respond, so casual in your defiance of one of the most powerful men in the galaxy, “leaders who control others through terror are easily overpowered. No one stays afraid forever.” Oh, how Armitage wishes that were true. He should not be participating in this conversation, but he likes to hear you speak. The ease with which you defy his father is refreshing, and a little addicting. Maybe his father’s abuse is not as inevitable as he once thought.

“Then who do you think would make a good leader?” 

“Actually, Lieutenant, I would say _you_.” A solid swell of pleasure wells up in Armitage’s chest, and he has to swallow it down before he can speak again.

“What?” He needs you to say more, knows that he could live off your praise for the rest of his life, and he wants to take in as much as he can before he has to face his father again.

“I mean, I’m no expert, of course,” you say then, stopping outside the entrance to your ship and turning to face him, “but I have seen you work with some of the other men here, and they seem to have a decent amount of respect for you, when the general isn’t around,” you shift from foot to foot, delaying your departure, “I think that you would make a fine general for the First Order.”

“Thank you,” The gratitude falls unbidden and unplanned from his lips, even though it’s not enough; Armitage can’t possibly express how much your words mean to him. It’s not just the compliment that he values, but all of it: your candor, your aid in escaping his father, and most of all, that you noticed him. The weight of it all is making it hard for him to breathe, but he thinks he could die happily, if it was in your presence. You step closer to him, lowering the volume of your voice so that only he can hear, and he wants to engrave this moment to memory—the sound of your whisper in his ear, the electric feeling of you in such close proximity.

“I know how you feel,” you say, “and I know what it’s like to be treated poorly by someone who is supposed to care for you. So if you ever find yourself in need of my services for, ah, _personal_ reasons, just know that I’ll take care of him, free of charge.” You step away from him and onto the loading dock of your ship, turning back once more before you leave.

“Whatever you decide, you know how to find me,” you wink when you say it, and Armitage nods in confirmation. You disappear into your ship, but he doesn’t leave the hangar just yet, wanting to stay in this feeling for as long as possible. Suddenly, facing his father doesn’t seem so daunting, and he thinks that he will take you up on your offer. There’s not much he wouldn’t do, if it meant seeing you again.


	2. Something to Live For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!!! i absolutely loved reading your kylo soulmate au!!! could we please get one for hux to even the scales??? ^^ maybe one where he knows before the reader that they're soulmates, and he's really nervous trying to decide how to reveal it and look smooth and cool doing it :o
> 
> I’m so glad someone asked for this because I wanted to write it so bad 😫😫😫 I will probably write three parts for this one as well.
> 
> Requests are open ✨
> 
> Armitage Hux x Resistance Pilot! Reader Soulmate AU
> 
> Warnings: language and violence against the reader

The stormtrooper’s grip is tight on your arm as he drags you through the hallways of the First Order vessel, pulling you at a pace that you can’t match in your current state. Crashing your X-Wing into a First Order outpost was certainly not ideal, but you’re in relatively good shape, all things considered. There’s a gash in your flight suit from when they pulled you from the wreckage—the cool air of the ship brushing against the skin of your side sending a chill through your body—and your head aches from when you hit it upon impact. Your helmet protected you from any serious damage, but you’re still dizzy, and there’s a small cut above your left eye, dripping blood down to your cheek and leaving your skin sticky. The trooper yanks on your arm more harshly, and you pull back, escaping their grip.

“I can walk without your help,” you say, and he doesn’t reach for you again, but continues on the way down the hall, watching to make sure follow. The panic in you is rising, threatening to become overwhelming, and you try to quell it with deep breaths because if you lose focus, it will be harder to find a way out. The halls of the _Steadfast_ are angular and unchanging, and soon you’ve lost track of how many turns you’ve taken since you were dragged from the transport. Getting back to a hangar on your own will be almost impossible, but you have to believe you’ll make it out of this one, like you always do. You and the trooper arrive at the bridge, but no one notices either of you amid the flurry of activity. He grabs your arm again, dragging you to the front.

“I have the prisoner, General,” the trooper says, shoving you forward, and you stumble. The general turns, the look of disgust on his face quickly replaced with surprise and then something akin to fear. He says nothing, and instead studies you with a careful eye and a deepening concern, his brow furrowed.

“You’re dismissed, RV-7568, I’ll take the prisoner from here,” he says, and the trooper turns to leave, but the three of you are interrupted by another man, much older, with coarse, dark hair and a scowl.

“What’s this about, General?” he asks, and your newest captor turns to him, schooling his expression. 

“Allegiant General Pryde, this is the prisoner that was taken from the scene of the crash.” Pryde looks at you with disgust, and you’re sure you’re mirroring it. A well of rage rises in you, and your next action is instinctual; it happens before you can stop yourself. You spit in his face. Without warning, your legs go out from under you as the trooper kicks you behind your knees, and shards of pain echo up through your thighs when you hit the floor of the bridge, unable to catch yourself with your cuffed hands. You don’t have time to process the sensation before the allegiant general brings the back of his gloved hand across your cheek with considerable force, and the sting brings tears to your eyes. You blink the stars from your vision, try to regain your sight, and through the haze you notice the general’s shiny leather boots flinch out of the corner of your eye, a practically imperceptible movement.

“Rebel scum,” the allegiant general sneers at you, “take her to a holding cell to await execution.” Your heart drops through the floor, and any chance of escape with it.

“General Pryde,” the other man steps forward as you’re pulled back to your feet by the trooper, “I’d like to interrogate the prisoner before the execution.” The trooper stops, but Pryde seems unconvinced.

“For what purpose, General?” Pryde asks, and your stomach lurches with dread. What the hell would the general want with you?

“Standard procedure, Allegiant General, for any onboarded prisoner. I wouldn’t want to break protocol.” Pryde’s mouth flattens into a thin frown, like a scar across his face, and he waits a moment before he speaks.

“Fine, General, since you’re not needed here,” Pryde says, turning away from the conversation and shutting the general out, satisfied now that he’d had the last word. You look to General Hux, curious to see his reaction to the slight, but there’s no sting of the insult evident on his face; in fact, he looks quite relieved. The trooper lingers for only a moment before turning and walking out, and suddenly, it’s just him and you, standing in the middle of the bridge. You’re feeling inexplicably lonely in the crowded space.

“Come with me,” he says, and you follow closely behind him as he sets out down the corridor. You have to jog a little to keep up as he weaves through the bodies pressing through the halls—a difficult task with your hands cuffed in front of you. Eventually, the crowds taper off, and you catch up to him, matching his quick pace by lengthening your strides.

Without warning, he stops before a control panel, typing in a complicated set of instructions. A door opens, and he gestures for you to enter first. It’s a holding cell—not an interrogation room—there’s a small slab that you assume is supposed to function as a bed and not much else. Did he change his mind about an interrogation? Or is something much worse than execution about to happen to you? You clench your fists tightly, ready to protect yourself. You’ll be dead before you let the general touch you.

“Take a seat,” he follows you in, and you’re on high-alert as the sound of the door sealing fills the small space. You turn to face him and hope that he can’t hear the fear in your voice.

“Don’t come any closer,” you hold your hands out in warning—not exactly threatening, since you’re still cuffed—and he pauses, surprised.

“What are you doing?” He’s confused, and you are as well, but he doesn’t move from his space by the door.

“Um, what are _you_ doing?” You return the question, and he looks at you quizzically before realization dawns on him.

“You don’t know who I am,” he says, and you’re not sure how to respond. Of course you know who he is; _that’s_ why you’re worried.

“You’re General Hux of the First Order?” you say it like a question, even though you know, and he jaw clenches in frustration, rolling his head back and running a gloved hand through his hair. He walks towards you and you falter, falling back onto the low bench.

“I said don’t come any closer!” You raise your hands to block your face, and that’s when you finally see it.

You hadn’t noticed any difference before: the halls of the Steadfast all had looked the same, the officers and the machinery decked out in shades of grey, but your flight suit is different, unmistakably so; a florescent orange that’s almost blinding compared to the muted colors the general wears.

“What the hell?” you mutter the words under your breath, your heartbeat pounding against your chest underneath your flight suit.

“It would appear that we are,” the general hesitates, and removes the cuffs from your wrists, avoiding eye contact, “soulmates.”

This is _not_ how General Hux imagined that this encounter would go, after he first caught sight of you on the bridge. He had hoped, foolishly, that everything would have gone more smoothly: that Pryde had not insisted on making him look like a fool, that you wouldn’t have been so afraid of him. And now that you’re aware of the strange and sudden development, he’s a little disappointed in your reaction. He wonders if you’re disappointed in him, too.

“This is new,” you say, taking in the unfamiliar color of your clothing. Hux is unsure what to say in response, but you continue talking anyways, more than happy to fill the silence. You turn to him, studying him intently now before saying, “you know, I always thought that you’d be taller.” 

“ _Excuse me_ -” he begins, and offense mars his words, but you interrupt him as you continue to connect the dots.

“Wait a second,” you stand from your seat and move to him, dangerously close, no longer afraid, “you’re the spy! You’ve been spying for the Resistance, haven’t you?”

Hux debates whether or not he should put a hand over your mouth, but he’s fairly certain that no one can hear you in here. This is not a well-traveled part of the ship, and the room should be soundproof. Still, one can never be too careful. He shushes you instead, and you lower your voice, speaking in an excited whisper.

“I’m right though, aren’t I? You _are_ the spy!” Your eyes go wide, and you look up at him with unbroken exhilaration on your face, “you can get us out of here!” _Bloody hell_ , were you always this rash? Hux takes in your appearance once again, noticing the scars and bruising marking your skin, some of the injuries clearly from incidents long before your crash, and your cheek is beginning to bruise from where Pryde hit you; so he has his answer.

“I think you need to observe this situation more carefully,” he says, and you falter, your excitement leaving just as quickly as it came, “we can’t afford to be reckless.”

“What do you mean? This seems like the perfect time to be reckless! Didn’t you hear him back there? He ordered for my execution, and if they find out you’re hiding me, they’ll know you’re the spy!”

“No one is going to find out,” Hux says with more confidence than he feels. He knows that Pryde probably suspects him, but he’s been careful to cover up any real evidence. Having you here will certainly change the way he works, though. He’ll have to be twice as cautious. “As far as anyone knows, this containment cell is empty, and I’ll make sure that no one else has access to it. I am still collecting information for the Resistance, information that they’ll need if they want to take down the Final Order.” There’s a stubborn set to your jaw, and it looks like you want to argue with him but aren’t sure how. Hux takes advantage of your silence and heads for the door, sure that he’s already stayed for too long, but you follow him.

“You’re leaving me here?” There’s panic in your voice now as well, and it hurts him to see you this way, an ache that is much stronger than he anticipated, and it’s becoming harder to predict an outcome where this will end well for him. Everything about this is more risky than he’d like it to be.

“I’ll come back for you,” he says, trying to remain composed, “do you trust me?”

“Um, _no_! Not really!” You grab hold of his arm, trying to keep him in place, and even though there’s nothing hostile about it, Hux still feels himself flinch. You pull your hand back when you see his reaction, a flutter of curiosity landing on your face. It’s like you’re reading him, and the pressure of your eyes roaming over him makes him shiver.

“Well, you don’t really have a choice.” He says it quietly, and your gaze falls away from his. He takes a chance to look at you again, knowing that you can’t see the admiration in his gaze. He already knows that you’re _impulsive_ , reckless, but there’s something about you that’s incredibly bold and unthinkably bright, and it’s that radiance which makes him want to help you. 

Maybe it’s a sign of trust, or maybe it’s defeat, but you step away from him, backing up into the corner of the room, and he opens the door, walking into the hallway without risking another look back. Hux takes a deep breath, regaining his usual authoritative demeanor before returning to the bridge. Still, there’s a feeling that he’s had since he first saw you—one that hit him like a blaster bolt in the chest and hasn’t left since—and it’s so at odds with how he’s felt for so long that he has trouble losing it: maybe he does have something to live for.


	3. Popping the Question

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honour of you choosing to marry Hux in fmk could we please please please get the cutest general in the First Order proposing? 😳
> 
> Um, YES!
> 
> Requests are open ✨
> 
> Pairing: Hux x Reader Proposal
> 
> Warnings: I don’t think so, hope y’all like it 😊

Droplets of sweat blossom at the general’s hairline, and he tries to wipe them away surreptitiously, without drawing your notice. It’s warmer than he anticipated on this planet—a foolish oversight on his part—and he’s starting to wonder if maybe he should have chosen somewhere else for this particular event. Somewhere indoors, maybe, with temperature controls.

At least the view is pretty, as promised. A wide veranda overlooking the lush landscape below, and the setting sun painting the scenery in burning shades of gold. The food is fine as well, or at least, you’ve told him that it’s good, but it’s hard for him to form an opinion on his own. His mouth is dry from the nerves, and every bite he’s eaten has tasted more or less like a handful of sand.

“Are you alright?” you ask him before taking another bite of the desert you ordered, your lips curling around your fork with a smile that speaks to illicit intentions. He’s reminded that he made the right choice, taking you off base for the occasion, and he loves to see you this way: not just out of uniform, but carefree and affectionate. He should get you away from the _Finalizer_ more often.

“Fine,” he manages to choke the word out, and you move closer to him, slipping your hand under the table and placing it on his thigh, the fabric of his trousers bunching beneath your fingers and sending shockwaves through his entire body.

“Maybe,” you whisper, “we should go back to the room, hmmm? So that we can _lie down_.” Your grip tightens on his leg, and for a moment Hux forgets how to breathe, thrilled by the idea of being alone with you, right now. Stars, it’s taking all the self-control he’s got not to pull you from the table this instant, but there’s something that he has to do first.

“In a moment, of course,” he says, and he removes your hand from his leg before standing, “should we go admire the view?” You’re intrigued, he can tell, and a little confused by his offer, but you stand anyways, taking his arm. 

The balcony is a private space, a little less crowded than the restaurant, and Hux takes a moment to breathe in the fresh air, which is cool on his skin now that the sun has set. It’s twilight here, the stars just beginning to appear in the sky, and move closer to him as you walk to the balcony.

“It’s beautiful here,” you say, admiring the view, and Hux nods, although he’s not really looking. This is the moment he’s been waiting for, and his body is alight with anticipation. He takes a deep breath, recalling the words he prepared over the last few weeks, the perfect words to use when he asks you to marry him.

_Ask._ The word triggers a panic he had not anticipated, a question he had not allowed himself to ponder until now. What if you said no? Was that a possibility? You hadn’t really discussed marriage, now that he thought about it, only vague conversations about your future, about being together. What if you didn’t want to get married at all? And, more importantly, what if you didn’t want to marry him?

He should really wait a little longer, now that he thinks about it, before doing this. There’s so many variables he hasn’t considered, and maybe there’s a better place for him to ask such an important question. Hux is about to call the whole thing off, ready to run back to the room and forget this foolish plan, when he feels you rest your head on his shoulder, the soft pressure of your body against his bringing him back to the moment.

“I love you, Armitage.” You say it so gently part of him thinks that he might be imagining it. _I love you_. No matter how many times he’s heard you say those words, he feels it the same every time, like an ache in his chest made of pure sunlight.

He’s moving before he realizes it, reaching for the ring box in his pocket and going down on one knee, just like he had rehearsed a few hundred times before, alone in his quarters. You look like a goddess standing before him, and he’s forgotten everything he planned to say, but none of that matters now. You love him, and that will be enough.

“You’re the love of my life,” he says simply, “will you do me the honor of marrying me?” The ring box shakes in his hands, but he manages to open it, and he watches as your hand goes to your mouth in surprise. You’re crying, the tears trailing down your face and for a moment you don’t speak, and his heart drops. He doesn’t have time to process the perceived rejection before your lips on his in a sweet and unexpected kiss.

“Of course I will,” you say and you’re in his arms, shaking with laughter and with tears, “of course I’ll marry you.” He pulls the ring from the box and places it on your trembling hand, but there’s no way for him to manage the joy he feels when you embrace him again. You said yes. You love him. Stars, how did he ever get so lucky?

“You know what this means, right?” you say as soon as you pull away from him, admiring the ring on your finger with an incredulous smile, and he shakes his head in response, too relieved to speak.

“We need to go celebrate,” your hand is in his, and you pull him to his feet, on your way back to the room. Hux smiles, a rare occurrence, but an apt reaction to the moment. He certainly feels like a lucky man.


	4. Something to Live For Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the second part of the Hux soulmate AU. I’m pretty proud of what I’ve written for this one, and I hope you guys like it. There will be a third part coming 💖
> 
> Requests are open ✨
> 
> Armitage Hux x Resistance Pilot! Reader Soulmate AU Pt. 2
> 
> Warnings: ANGST🔥ANGST🔥ANGST🔥ANGST🔥 (and some language)

The general’s hand is heavy on your shoulder as he escorts you through the halls of the _Steadfast_ , and you are keenly aware that this is the first time he’s touched you since you’ve met him, which, by your best estimates, was almost 4 days ago. The pressure is pleasant, firm, but not pushy, and if you turn your head slightly to the side and glance out of the corner of your eye, you can see a small sliver of skin peek out from between the general’s glove and jacket sleeve. You find yourself chewing on your lip, lost in thought, before forcing yourself to snap out of it. Maker, spending all this time alone had addled your brain. You should not be getting this excited about a damn wrist.

“I don’t like this,” his voice sounds off quietly behind you, unaware of your wandering mind, “we should have created a contingency plan in case we run into someone.”

“Don’t worry, General, we’re not going to get caught.” You know he’s skeptical without seeing his face. Does the man ever relax?

“How can you be so sure?” It’s been a running theme the past few days—this specific brand of doubt—in every conversation you’ve had with him, but there’s also a curiosity; he’s always trying to discern what you think of him, and unfortunately, you’ve spent plenty of time worrying about the same. 

“Because if you really thought we might be in danger, we wouldn’t be here.” He’s silent, and you know he’s feeling _something_ , but you’re not sure what it is exactly. You’ve gotten pretty good at recognizing most of his other emotions: anxiety, doubt, exasperation, but this one is new.

“Why do you say that?” His voice is quiet, a soothing murmur that hums through the air, and you wish you could close your eyes and relish the sound. 

“I’d like to believe that you wouldn’t risk my safety, or yours. I trust your judgement.” Was that the right thing to say? He doesn’t respond, but there’s a softening in his grip, a slight tremble in his thumb as he traces its way to the place where your neck meets your shoulder, the pad of his gloved thumb resting on your bare skin. The contact is unprecedented—intimate and gone too soon. You’ve reached your destination.

“You have five minutes,” he says, and as soon as you’re uncuffed you go to work, unzipping the top of your flight suit and shrugging it down to your hips and then to your ankles, stepping out of the legs with a little shake and leaving it in a pile behind you. The barrack refresher is dark, with rows of nozzles down one side and no separation between them. You pick one at random, pulling off your compression top and underwear, shivering in the cold air and reaching for the handle.

You pause, frozen with embarrassment as you remember that you’re not alone, and you turn to see how the general has handled your abrupt undressing. He’s in the room still, but facing the opposite wall, his posture impeccable and his hands resting behind his back. Nothing about him hints that he caught you half-naked, but you flush red, wondering how much he saw before he assumed this position. You yank the handle, irritated with yourself; now is not the time for modesty.

A little gasp escapes your parted lips when the water first hits your skin, blissfully warm already and you turn up the heat, letting it burn away any evidence the past few days. It had been hard to convince the general to let you do this, and he’d made a few adjustments to your initial plan, but it all feels worth it now that you can rinse the grime and blood from your face, scrub your hands over your skin. It’s a small victory, and you’re still no closer to an escape, but _this_ makes you feel human again.

There’s a steamy haze in the air, and General Hux can feel himself start to grow damp, droplets of moisture clinging to his cheeks and burrowing into the fabric of his uniform. There’s an anxious hum—deep in his chest—and he tries to convince himself that it’s preparatory, in case the two of you are discovered, but he’s unable to assure himself of the lie. He knows that the real reason he feels this way is because he’s hardwired into your presence, the sound of the water tumbling to the floor like a siren call, another reminder that you're _here_ with him. But for how much longer?

He should be planning for your escape. He should be putting it into motion. It’s difficult, though, to create any kind of plan when the only place on the whole damn ship he feels okay anymore was in your fucking cell. With you. He had tried to keep his distance, but sneaking food had turned to sneaking bits of your time, of your presence. He isn’t ready to be without it. His own weakness vexes him.

The sound of the water stops and a quiet rustling fills the space now as you put your clothes back on, thank the Maker. “I’m decent,” you say and Hux turns back to face you again. _Decent_ is quite the stretch, and his breath catches at the sight of so much skin, the planes of your stomach bare, reaching up from the waist of your flight suit before meeting the dark fabric of your compression top.

“Here,” he hands you the protective vest, making concentrated eye contact with the wall behind you, “it’s treated, to deflect blaster fire.” You take it from his hands, shrugging it over your torso and arranging it beneath your flight suit.

“Smart, I never would have thought of it,” you say, fully dressed once again. It takes a moment for Hux to understand that you are sincere in your praise and he’s filled with a warmth, as well as an ache. He’s not well-adjusted to kindness.

“Don’t you normally wear protective gear, as a pilot?” he asks, and you laugh, a low, melodic sound.

“I guess I tend to play things a little too close to the chest. Are you wearing one?”

“Of course.” That was a lie. He only had the one, and was unwilling to take chances of trying to find another. He had given you his. The cuffs are reattached to your wrists, and you exit with him following close behind, a guiding hand on your shoulder once again.

Allowing you to get this close to him had been a mistake, and it would only lead to disappointment. Hux is sure about that, but it’s hard to think about the future now when the present holds such pleasantries, like a word of praise from your lips, or the feeling of his hand resting on your shoulder, only a few thin layers of fabric separating him from bare skin. He’ll have to make the best of the little time he has left.

Suddenly, there are voices, quiet but recognizable, approaching from the other end of the corridor, and Hux pulls you to the nearest doorway, furiously typing in his access code before shoving you in the entrance. A surprised cry escapes your lips, but he smothers it, placing a hand over your mouth and following you inside. The door closes in the nick of time—he can hear Pryde’s shoes as he turns the corner.

“Who was that?” you whisper, and Hux lets go of you immediately, peering through the darkness, trying to take in his surroundings. The room is pitch black but there’s an overpowering smell of disinfectant that makes its way into his lungs and stings his eyes; you must be in a sanitation storage room.

“The allegiant general, and Admiral Griss, I believe. We’ll have to stay here for a moment, until we can be sure that they’re gone.” Hux’s eyes don’t adjust to the darkness, but he can feel you there with him, only inches away. Minutes pass, Hux is unsure how many, before the silence is broken by the sound of your whisper.

“Can I ask you a question, General?” Should he say no? There’s only silence coming from the hallway, but that doesn’t mean that the two of you are safe.

“I suppose.”

“Why did you do it?” There are small puffs of air brushing his face, and Hux isn't sure whether or not it’s your breath, doesn't know exactly how close you are to him in this confined space. Every fiber of him is focused on staying still, afraid to brush up against you in the dark. Afraid of what he would feel if he did. Afraid that he would want more. “What made you spy for the Resistance?”

“The Order,” he starts, pausing in an attempt to arrange his thoughts. How could he communicate a lifetime of dissatisfaction and disappointment into words? “is not what I thought it was. I’ve been immersed in this world since I was young, and recently I learned that much of what I had been taught was a lie.”

“Why didn’t you leave, though, when you found out the truth?” You shift closer to him in the dark, shrinking the space between you; the little room is beginning to feel more dangerous than the corridor. Hux is glad that it’s dark—grateful that you can’t see him, because your questions make him feel like he’s without skin. Raw, unprotected, vulnerable. Everything he hates.

“Where would I go?” It’s not even a whisper, he asks the question so quietly, and he knows that he’s told you everything. It’s the worst part of himself laid out in front of you, ugly and desperate and malignant. There’s silence again; you don’t have an answer for him, and Hux is glad for it. He’ll save this feeling; it will make everything much easier when you eventually leave him.

“I wasn’t always a pilot,” you say, brushing against his arm with your own, maybe as a gesture of comfort, “Before I joined the Resistance, I was a negotiator-” there’s a pregnant pause, and Hux can imagine what you look like without being able to see you: the anxious way that you bite your lip, your hands curling into fists at your sides,” -for the Guavian Death Gang.” You swallow, loudly, before moving away, separating yourself from him in shame.

“Oh my god,” there’s not much else Hux can say in response. He knows about the gang: they’re cruel, exacting, violent. Nothing like you.

“I hurt a lot of people,” you continue, and your voice is heavy, “Some of them might have deserved it, but most of them . . . didn’t, and I didn’t even choose to leave. They turned on me and I ran. Poe found me when I had nowhere else to go.” There’s a lot for Hux to process here, and he’s not sure if he’s capable of it in his current state. His initial impression of you has been completely shattered, and he’s surprised to find that it only serves to draw him closer to you, now that he knows where you come from, and can see what you’ve become.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen when we get off of this ship,” you say, “and I’m not saying that saving me, or helping the Resistance, or anything like that is going to make up for what you’ve done. But I want to give you a chance, General. I believe that you could be a good man.” Hux barely heard anything you said, he’s feeling lost and lightheaded; all he knows is that now feels like a good time to kiss you, when everything is quiet, in a place that is dark. Hidden here, out of sight, he feels like he could do something reckless. 

“We should be safe to leave now,” he says instead. His voice is hoarse and he swallows, hoping to clear any evidence of sentiment before returning to the light of the corridor. He leaves first and checks to make sure that the hallway is empty before ushering you out as well. He does not place his hand on your shoulder this time, instead walking back to your cell and allowing you to follow.

The rest of the journey is uneventful, and Hux opens the door, following behind you reluctantly as you enter, removing your cuffs with a detached air.

“I have a plan for your escape,” he says without looking at you, “tomorrow night. Be ready.” This will be good, Hux tells himself. Better to get it over with.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow, General,” there’s a small smile on your face, but it doesn’t reach your eyes; you can sense that something is wrong. He hopes that you know this isn’t your fault.

“Yes, tomorrow. Good night.” He leaves without looking back, and for the first time Hux can remember, tears threaten to spill from his eyes. If the Maker exists, he thinks, they must be cruel. Only a vengeful god would bring someone like you into his life, just to take you away.


	5. His Pilot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armitage x reader, going back to his home planet? Him being upset, you comforting him?
> 
> Love it! I decided to write something without an established relationship, but if you'd prefer something with an established relationship, please let me know and I will write another version! 
> 
> Requests are open ✨ 
> 
> Armitage Hux x Reader 
> 
> Warnings: I don't think so! 

“We’re just about to enter the planet’s atmosphere, General,” you say, turning on the shields and checking the control panels, “you might want to take a seat. Once we break through the cloud cover, it’s going to get pretty bumpy.” General Hux hesitates for a moment before sitting down in the co-pilot seat, staring forward through the viewport with the same stony look he’s had since you left the _Finalizer_. It’s a look that suggests deep and turbulent thoughts—thoughts that he might want to share—but you shrug this idea away. It is not your place to ask the general to confide in you. 

You break through the clouds; the small transport is immediately blasted with rain and for a moment you struggle to see in the dim light of the planet. The general is beside you, looking pensive, unbothered by the shaking of the ship, and you take your eyes off the viewport only for a moment as you admire him. He catches you staring out of the corner of his eye and you snap your head back, facing forward with an embarrassed determination. Normally the general wasn’t close enough to notice you or your staring; you’d have to be less suspicious. 

“Is everything alright, sir?” you ask, hoping to play off your admiration as concern, and he looks at you critically. 

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been to Arkanis,” he says, “but I still remember the rain.” His answer only generates more questions for you, but you stay quiet and focus on landing the ship. 

“I’ll wait here for you then, General,” you say, flipping the switch and lowering the loading dock so that he can disembark. The sound of the rain intensifies as the hatch opens, but the general hardly seems to notice, still focused on the distorted world outside the viewport. 

“General?” He makes no response, and despite how nervous it makes you, you reach out with one hand, tapping him twice on the shoulder. He turns to look at you, the movement so quick that you jump, and you stutter for a moment before you’re able to speak again, “did you hear what I said, sir?” 

“I didn’t,” if you’re looking for a longer reply you’re sorely disappointed; the general says nothing else as he stands from the seat and turns up the collar of his greatcoat. 

“I said I’d wait for you here, sir,” you repeat yourself and he reaches beside him for an umbrella. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’ll come inside with me,” and then, when he sees that you’re still seated, “it would be unsafe for you to stay here alone.” His reasoning is questionable—Arkanis may be Republic territory but it wasn’t particularly dangerous, as far as you knew. Either way, you’re unwilling to defy him and so you stand, following him to the mouth of the ship. Water drips down from the edge of the loading dock, freezing cold when it splashes against your face on its way to the ground. Staying by yourself on the ship suddenly seems much more appealing; the idea of walking out into the storm makes you almost as miserable as the planet looks, and your uniform is not made to withstand the rain. 

“Here,” the general holds the umbrella out to you, and you resist the urge to take it. 

“Oh no, sir, I couldn’t possibly-” but he opens it anyways, grabbing your hand and placing the handle in your grip before walking out into the downpour. You’re frozen for a moment, shocked by the contact, and you have to remind yourself to keep your thoughts professional. Just because he doesn’t want to see you dead in the ship or drenched from the rain _does not_ mean that he has any feelings for you. If only you could convince your fluttering heart that was true; you repeat the refrain as you walk, but it has no effect. 

Jogging slightly, you manage to catch up with the general, and it only takes a few minutes on the flooded street before you're soaked from the knees down; the rain is relentless and—as embarrassed as you are by your reaction to the general’s kindness—you’re still grateful for the umbrella and the protection that it offers. Besides, it doesn’t look like the general really needs it; he seems untouched by the rain—not a hair out of place—as if the droplets coming down are as apprehensive about coming near him as everyone else is. His brow is furrowed against the wind, and when he’s looking this determined, this focused, it’s hard for you to look away. 

“We’re here,” the general stops without warning, walking through a shadowed entry you had hardly noticed and you follow right behind him. The hidden gate leads to the grounds of an estate, an imposing and elegant structure with many dark, empty windows, and the grounds are lush and green, the scent of growing things strong as it wafts through the air. 

You follow the general to a covered doorway and close the umbrella, shaking the excess water off. The door is opened and you’re greeted by a man with skin so golden it makes you feel warmer just looking at him. His hair is long and dark and it curls over his forehead, framing a striking pair of amber eyes. 

“General Hux, I presume,” he says, offering his hand to shake, and his disposition is almost as sunny as his countenance, “come inside, it’s freezing out there.” A blast of warm air greets you as you enter, and you can feel the other man’s eyes on you as you set the umbrella up against the wall. 

“You must think me terribly rude,” he says, leaving the general and taking one of your hands in his, his skin hot compared to your chilled fingers, and he brings your knuckles up to his mouth to brush a kiss against them, “my name is Taripier Day.” He lowers your hand from his face, but doesn’t let go, and you have to hold in a laugh at his enthusiastic greeting. It’s not every day that you’re given attention like this, and while it is somewhat uncomfortable to be wooed by another man in front of the general, he seems harmless enough, if a little on the eccentric side. 

“General, you never told me you would be bringing such a pretty companion,” Day continues, laying his praise on rather thick, and you look to the general to gauge his reaction. It’s not easy to read his expression, but you think, or maybe foolishly hope, that he might be annoyed by the attention that you’ve received and your acceptance of it. Or, more likely, he’s annoyed that his meeting is being delayed for this silly display. 

“I didn’t think that information would be pertinent, Day,” the general says with a sniff as he shrugs off his greatcoat, “shall we-” General Hux doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before Day has interrupted him, placing your arm in his and walking you deeper into the foyer. 

“Not so fast, General,” he chuckles, half escorting and half dragging you away from the door, “we’ll have plenty of time for business in a moment, but for right now I need to give you and your lovely friend here a tour of the estate.” You feel the general’s hand on your shoulder as he pulls you to a stop, and Day turns, surprised to see that you’ve been yanked from his grasp. 

“I believe my pilot would like to rest,” the general says, and his hand is burning contact into your shoulder, despite the formality of his demeanor and his touch,"I’d like to get on with our meeting as quickly as possible.” 

“Oh, General, you’re no fun,” Day says, unperturbed by the general’s cold behavior, “we’ll meet in the study then.” He addresses you next, admiring you openly, and you can feel the general’s grip tighten. “You may take a look around while we talk, my dear, and maybe later I’ll give you a proper tour.” He walks off with the general following close behind, and you’re left in the foyer with a thrumming excitement echoing down from the place where the general rested his hand, and two words echoing through your mind: _my pilot_. 

You know that the general didn’t mean it in any capacity beyond professional, but it was still nice to hear him say it. You would like to be _his_ pilot. There are a lot of things you’d like to be. Your thoughts wander as aimlessly as you do through the many halls of the estate, and you go in and out of rooms at random, each more decadent and elaborate than the last, but all of them empty of people, and all of them dark. 

There’s only one room you find that’s any different, a kitchen hidden in the back of the estate. It’s clean and unoccupied, but there’s a fire going in a large fireplace on the far side of the room. You move to it, excited by the warmth you already feel, and it sinks into the cold fabric covering your legs, reaching the skin beneath. The promise of warmth draws you closer and you lower yourself to ground level, sitting in front of the fire and rubbing your hands over your legs, testing the dampness of your uniform. 

It’s cozy in the kitchen, and you find yourself lost in the flickering of the fire, the smell of the crackling wood filling your senses and finding its way into your hair, embedding itself into the fibers of your uniform. Sitting here, in the dim light, you feel yourself dozing off, and your eyelids grow too heavy to resist.

It’s not the sound of his footsteps that eventually wakes you. It’s his presence, you can feel him enter the room even in your half-conscious state, but it’s the scuffing of his shoes against the stone tile that startles your eyes open. From this angle the general looks even taller, somehow more impressive, and you expect him to be angry with you, understandably so. You’re surprised to see a small, thin sadness like a veil over his eyes, instead. 

“I’m sorry, General, had you been standing there long?” you say, jumping to your feet so quickly that black spots form in your vision, and you have to reach out to the counter behind you to steady yourself. General Hux doesn’t register your apology, as he’s currently occupied—studying the small kitchen with an intense gaze, like he’s looking for something lost.

“Sir, are you alright?” It’s safe to say that you’ve never seen him like this before. He was always so calm, so focused and self-assured and now he looks adrift—out of body. While the differences in his demeanor may not have registered to a less-interested party, to you they are severe and concerning, and it’s forcing you to break down the barrier you’ve kept up around him, and apparently the general feels the same way. He hesitates for only a moment before lowering himself to a seated position, arranging himself on the floor of the kitchen. The large workspace in the middle of the room shields him from the view of the door, and he looks at you only for a moment before you follow his lead, finding a seat next to him on the ground with some uncertainty. 

“I lived here, on Arkanis, when I was very young,” he starts, and you’re close enough to him that you can see the flame reflected in his eyes, “in a place very similar to this one. It’s all . . . more familiar than I expected.” You’re not sure what to say, but it doesn’t seem like the general is looking for any response, so you stay silent, waiting for him to continue. 

“My mother worked in a kitchen in the estate,” he says next, and a small gasp escapes his lips. You worry for a moment that he might be on the verge of tears, but it must be a trick of the light, because when you look more closely at his eyes they appear clear and indifferent. 

She would be proud of you, sir,” you say quietly, and he scoffs in gentle disbelief. It strikes you how little you really know about him, and the thought makes you melancholy. There must not be many people for the general to rely on, if he’s trusting such intimate details to you. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he responds, his gaze falling to the floor in shame. 

“Why are you telling me this, General?” you ask, and the way he looks at you—it feels like he’s seeing for the first time. The eye contact alone is enough to bring a blush to your cheeks, and you hope he’ll blame it on the warmth of the fire. 

“I’m not sure,” he finally says, and you wait on bated breath for anything else, “I just . . . I’d like you to stay with me, if that’s alright.” The truth is that you’d like nothing more, but you don’t want to scare him off, so you nod, leaning back and hoping to appear casual. You keep your eyes on the fire, even when the general’s breathing becomes labored and erratic and you know that he must be crying; you offer him your hand without looking, and you’re surprised when you feel him take it.

His grip on your hand is tight, a lifeline, you think, and you keep still, knowing that the slightest of movements could ruin this moment for him. It’s not long before he grows quiet and stops shaking, and his hand is gloved but it still feels warm in your fingers. He shifts slightly, and you let go, bringing both your hands into your lap. The general clears his throat and you hear the rustle of fabric as he stands. 

“Oh finally, General,” a voice sounds from the doorway—Day's voice—and he enters the kitchen, “have you found her yet?” You take this as the chance to stand as well, and Day lights up when he sees you. 

“There you are! The general and I have been looking everywhere for you!” 

“We’ll be leaving now,” General Hux says, and you follow him towards the exit of the kitchen, his steps rapid, hoping to make a quick exit before Day can rope either of you into a tour. 

“But you never got the tour!” Day calls out. He follows closely behind, but he can’t keep up with the general’s quick pace. The sight of him chasing after you is _very_ funny, but you hold in a laugh, trying your hardest to catch up to the general.

“Maybe some other time, sir,” you say over your shoulder to Day, hoping to sound serious. He brushes you off with a wave of his hand, stopping just outside the entryway of the house. 

“Don’t pity me, dear. Fate is being terribly unkind! How will I live knowing that our paths will never again cross?” He throws himself against a wall in mock anguish, checking out of the corner of his eye to see how his performance is received, and this time you do laugh. 

General Hux rolls his eyes, already wearing his greatcoat and reaching for the handle on the door. “Don’t be so dramatic, Day. Of course you’ll see her again,” the cold air that blasts through the door is almost as shocking as the words that leave his mouth next, his green eyes piercing as he looks directly at you, “I wouldn’t go anywhere without my pilot.”


	6. Preparations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> could i please request hux and his f!crush getting stuck in a lift together? 😍😍
> 
> Whoops, I stayed up until 2AM to finish this one, that’s what I get for drinking all that Dr. Pepper at 10 PM. This was super fun, thanks for the suggestion!
> 
> Requests are closed (for now) ✨
> 
> Armitage Hux x Reader
> 
> Warnings: Nope!

“I’ll have those reports filed immediately, General,” the ensign says, struggling to keep up with his pace as he moves down the hall. General Hux doesn’t really care if he gets the reports immediately or not—not on a day like today—but he can’t let anyone know that. If he let his standards slip, even for a second, it would no doubt result in chaos.

“I’ll watch for them,” he responds, and the ensign scurries away, back to the bridge. Now that he’s alone, Hux can focus on more important matters. He’s planned carefully to make sure that he has enough time before the ceremony, and now he needs to return to his quarters to make his last minute preparations. He’ll practice his speech again, inspect his uniform …

The lift arrives, and his thoughts are interrupted as he steps aboard. He’s eager to reach his destination but the lift is moving too slowly for his liking; he’s overcome with annoyance when it comes to a stop a few levels too soon. The doors open, and Hux has already set his face in a scowl, ready to terrify whoever is about to board into finding a different lift. When he sees it’s you, though, the glare disappears immediately; his jaw falls slack, his heart falls out of his chest—the space left empty is filled with a bubbling set of nerves that have nothing to do with his upcoming address.

“Oh, I’m sorry, General! I can wait for the next one,” you say once you look up from your data pad and see that it’s him, one of your hands raised in a gentle apology. On instinct, he blocks the doors from closing with his foot and gestures for you to enter.

“I insist,” he says, but you still hesitate, “since you’re already here.” You give him a small smile as you walk through the doorway, avoiding eye contact as you brush past him.

The lift begins moving again, and Hux finds himself staring at the back of your neck, bare skin visible in the space between the collar of your uniform and your hair, which you’ve swept up and out of the way. He should say something to you. Now is the perfect time, after all. It’s not very often that he gets to see you alone and he doesn’t want to waste this opportunity, but his mind is blank; he’s distracted as you tap your fingers against the back of your data pad, keenly watching the door.

“You’ll be attending the ceremony?” he asks, the words in his head finally forming a sentence after considerable effort, and you turn to look at him, surprised.

“Yes, general, I’ll be there,” you respond, a little nervous, before adding, “attendance is mandatory, after all.” You face forward again, and Hux would like to fall through the floor. What a stupid thing for him to say; of course you’d be there. He’s sure that there’s no way for him to salvage this conversation now, especially not when he’s busy berating himself for his ineptitude. The embarrassment is so loud in his mind that he almost misses your next question.

“You’ll be addressing us today, sir, I assume?” you ask, and he pauses for a moment, trying to generate a coherent answer _and_ thank the stars that you’re still talking to him at the same time.

“Yes, I will.” There’s only a few more floors before the lift reaches his destination, but he’s no longer in a hurry. In fact, now he hopes that time would slow down, or stop even, so that he could be here with you just a little while longer.

“I look forward to it, sir,” you say, “your last address was very engaging. _The negligent New Republic surrenders to the whims of its most avaricious_ …” you trail off there, a faint blush budding on your cheeks, and the general feels unsteady on his feet at the sound of his own words repeated back to him, “do you write all of them yourself?”

“Oh, I- uh, yes,” he stutters, and he feels heat rise on his own face, his neck growing warm under his collar.

“I’m impressed, general, you have a way with words.” The praise goes straight to his head, and General Hux is sure that he’ll think of nothing else today, not during the ceremony, not after. _This_ has been, and certainly will be, the best part of his day.

The lift slows to a stop, and he wonders if there’s some excuse he could make to stay with you a little longer. He doesn’t have to worry; even though there’s no movement from the lift, the doors don’t open, and it isn’t until the lights flicker gently that he realizes something is wrong.

“Strange,” Hux reaches for the control panel, re-entering the command, but there’s no change, the doors closed solidly, the lift stubbornly still.

“Is something wrong, General?” you ask, leaning in next to him to study the control panel as well.

“The lift has stopped, it must be broken.” You nod slightly, staring up at him for a moment, waiting. 

“What should we do?” you ask, and Hux isn’t sure how to respond, running through a list of options, finding no solutions. This has never happened to him before.

“You’re an engineer,” he says tentatively, “is there anything you could do?” You pause for a moment, biting your lip as you think. Part of him, an embarrassingly large part of him, hopes that any answer you come up with will take quite a bit of time.

“Nothing comes to mind, sir,” you say, examining the control panel, “I don’t have any tools with me at the moment, and I wouldn’t dare look at the wiring behind the panel without turning on the emergency settings first. That would have to be done at the main console.” Was that the answer he was hoping for? General Hux has mixed feelings; he didn’t want the problem solved right away, obviously, but it seems that the only path available is to wait for someone to discover that the two of you are trapped, and that makes him nervous.

“Could we try contacting someone? On your data pad?” He asks next, and your eyes light up with relief at his suggestion.

“Good idea, sir. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.” You begin writing out a message—Hux assumes it’s for your second-in-command. He’s feeling a little more hopeful, but that feeling is lost once he sees you tap the screen a few times, your brows knitting together in confusion.

“It’s not sending,” you say, and your hand shakes as you pass him the data pad. The message is typed out on your screen, but no matter how many times Hux tries to send it, the screen stays obstinately the same.

“Something must be blocking the transmission. Do you-” his question is caught in his throat when he looks at you and sees that you’re shaking, eyes closed, holding onto the wall with one hand to steady yourself.

“Are you alright?” It’s obvious to him that you are not, but he asks the question anyway.

“I, um, I’m terribly sorry, General-” you say, and your words are punctuated with long pauses as you suck in a few deep breaths through your parted lips, “closed spaces make me a little nervous. Normally the lifts are fine, but … how long do you think it will be before we get out of here? I mean, someone has to come look for us, right? How long do you think that will take?”

“I’m sure someone will realize that there’s a problem soon enough. Perhaps you should sit down?” You nod in agreement, sliding to the floor. Hux hates to admit it, but he doesn’t have a plan. All the options he could think of have been exhausted, and he’s not sure how things could have gone from being so pleasant to so dire so quickly.

He needs to get a hold of himself. He had wished to spend more time with you, and now that he’s got plenty of it, he should take advantage. Hux moves closer to where you sit on the floor, lowering himself onto one knee and meeting you at eye-level. Your face is flushed and your breathing is rapid and shallow; Hux is worried that if he doesn’t find some way to help you, you might pass out.

“What do you need from me?” he asks, and you open your eyes, glassy with tears, “how can I help?” You reach out, gripping one of his hands in yours, and he’s surprised by the strength of your hold on him.

“I just need something to distract me, General,” you say quietly, “anything.” Hux needs to think for only a moment before an idea appears.

“Would you mind if I practiced my speech?” he asks, and you nod, a quiet laugh replacing the sounds of your harsh breathing. Every nerve is alight as General Hux moves to sit beside you, your bodies pressed close together on the floor of the lift. You keep hold of his hand, but your grip relaxes infinitesimally as he begins.

The words come haltingly as Hux adjusts to his position on the floor and his audience of one. Normally he practices alone, sometimes while he gets ready in the morning, sometimes late into the night, repeating the same sections over and over again, working tirelessly to get the inflection perfect. He falls into a steady rhythm after a moment, almost able to ignore the warmth emanating from you, and the softness of your fingers intertwined with his. He falters, though, once you move closer, resting your head on his shoulder. Your breath, much slower now, tickles as it brushes against his jaw, and the words threaten to fly from his head, but he forces himself to focus, for your sake and his. He takes heart knowing that the distraction is working, but his own pulse is beating rapidly, and he can hear himself become breathless just before he finishes the last few words.

There’s silence now, but you’re noticeably calmer, your grip on his hand much more relaxed. Hux has changed his mind once again; now he hopes that no one will find the two of you; he’d like to stay in this lift forever.

You clear your throat before speaking, removing your head from his shoulder with a little shake, embarrassed by the gesture of affection. “Thank you, General. That was the perfect distraction.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replies, and you pull your hand from his, smoothing it over your hair before stopping at the base of your neck. You stay there for a moment, looking at him with an eager smile, like you just solved a difficult problem and were excited to tell someone about it.

“What?” he asks quietly, hoping for some kind of insight to what you are thinking. Your smile only gets wider, and Hux can feel himself mirroring your expression, the corners of his own mouth turning up against his will.

“It’s nothing, General. I just didn’t know you had such a gentle side to you. I feel like I know your deepest secret now.” Hux scoffs, resting his head back on the wall of the lift. His deepest secret? Far from it. Still, the grin doesn’t leave your face and you won’t stop looking at him, studying him with relentless enthusiasm. This time, when he looks back, he does smile—a small, reserved smile—but a smile nonetheless.

“When we get out of here, you’ll have to keep it to yourself,” he says, looking away from you and disciplining his expression, “it would ruin my reputation.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, General.” You nudge him gently with your elbow, and it sets his heart on fire. Stars, he _really_ doesn’t want to leave this lift. He doesn’t want things to go back to the way they were before.

Apparently, all of the general’s wishes for today have run out, because the two of you are startled apart by the squealing sound of metal against metal, and the doors are pried open, a familiar face appearing at the top of the door.

“There you are!” It’s Brielis, your second-in-command, and your expression is flooded with relief when you recognize that it’s her.

“Oh thank the Maker,” you say, hurrying to the door, and two stormtroopers reach into the gap, pulling you out by your arms through the small opening they’ve created; you’ve been stuck between two levels this whole time. General Hux manages to make it out of the gap without help, straightening out his uniform as he watches you embrace Brielis.

“We had no idea how long it would take for someone to find us!” you say to her, “how did you know where we were?”

“What are you talking about? I got your message of course,” she replies, and you look to the general in confusion.

“The sending must have been delayed,” he says, and you nod in agreement. The troopers have moved on already, but General Hux lingers, hoping to stay with you for just a moment longer. You notice his reluctance to leave and flatten your mouth into a thin line, trying to stifle a smile.

“Brie, can I get you to coordinate the repair for this lift?” you ask, and she nods, eager to help, “I just need to speak with the general for a moment.” Brielis nods again, already running off down the corridor. You turn back to the general, a little shy now that you’re back in a public space.

“If you’d like to take some time to recover, or help with the repair,” Hux says, hoping to put you at ease, “you’re excused from the ceremony.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, General,” you say with a laugh, “I wouldn’t dream of missing it.” A quivering thrill runs through him, and when you smile again, his heart threatens to stop. You wave a small goodbye, and he watches as you walk down the corridor, off to find Brielis and get the repair started. General Hux waits for a moment, postponing his preparations, but he’s not worried. Even without the time he had planned for, he still thinks that this might be his best address yet.


	7. Free of Charge Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hun I would love to request a Hux x Reader oneshot where the reader literally stops Armitage from an abusive episode from Brendol by getting struck instead. I wanna see our boi be scared for reader but also get hella pissed at his dad. Thanks love
> 
> Absolutely! I decided to make this the second part of the Hux x Bounty Hunter! reader because I got a few requests for part 2, and the abuse storyline was already established. 
> 
> Requests are closed for now ✨
> 
> Armitage Hux x Bounty Hunter! Reader
> 
> Warnings: Both physical and mental abuse to Hux and the reader, and language.

You’re in his office, studying your surroundings with an indecipherable smile, occasionally looking back at him as he sits at his desk, and Armitage is struggling to look at ease even though he’s _dying_ to know what you’re thinking. It’s been a while, too long in his opinion, since he last saw you. He’s thought of your last meeting constantly since you left, but gathering the courage to contact you had more to do with banishing his own self-doubt than any thought of sparing his father, who—despite Armitage’s recent accolades—had only increased his abusive behavior. He wants Brendol gone, and he wants your help, but there are other wants as well, and _those_ are the ones that are holding him back.

“Congratulations on the promotion, Commander,” you say, finally taking a seat, “I’m sure it was well deserved.”

“Thank you.” Armitage fidgets in his chair now that he holds all of your attention. How should he go about this? It’s brand new territory in more ways than one. There’s a specific image he’s trying to portray and he’s not sure if it’s working; he needs you to see someone self-assured, confident, in control. “Should we discuss-”

“In a moment, of course. But before we talk about any specifics, I’d like to make sure that this is what you really want?” You speak casually, discussing the terms of his father’s death like one would discuss the weather.

“Of course, my mind is made,” he responds, and he knows there’s no chance of doubt, although a part of him regrets that he needs help at all. A heavy silence follows his words, filling the air, and there’s something in your eyes that he can’t identify—a decision to be made, maybe, or a judgement. You leave the chair and walk to the other side of his desk, resting your hip lightly against it and crossing your arms over your chest, steady and at-ease, and emitting an electric intensity that Armitage can’t ignore.

“Alright, then.” You hop into a seated position on his desk, leaning forward, and one of your legs rests against his now, your shin brushing up against the lower half of his thigh. Now _this_ is unexpected, and decidedly not accidental on your part, but Armitage pretends to take no notice. He doesn’t want to be presumptuous.

“Normally these conversations take place in areas that are a little more private. Is there somewhere else we could go to discuss details?” you ask, quietly, “maybe my ship? Or your quarters?” Armitage must be imagining things. You can’t be saying what he thinks you’re saying, but it’s hard to keep his mind away from the possibility of it, especially when your gaze stays focused on his mouth, sending a thrill up his spine.

“We should be safe enough in here,” he responds, concentrating all his effort on keeping professional, ignoring the hammering of his heart, “no one should be able to listen in.” He can’t believe that you might want him. He won’t _let_ himself believe it.

“Yes, but could we be interrupted?” You lean closer, and his heart stutters in his chest as one of your hands pushes gently into his shoulder, holding him in place against his chair. He knows that when you release your hold his uniform will be wrinkled, but it’s a small price to pay for such a lovely feeling. He doesn’t know how to act when you’re this close.

“What are you doing?” he whispers. Your hair falls into his face, brushing against his cheeks, and the smell of you evelops him: surprisingly sweet, with something mysterious beneath, something clean and metallic.

“Do you want me to stop, _Commander_?” Stars, he had heard the new title countless times, but never said like this. Any discussion you would need to have about his father could certainly wait.

“No,” he whispers, and he’s worried that he might be breathing too loudly. He places a tentative, shaking hand on your waist, urging you closer, and you oblige, sliding from the desk and winding your arms around his neck in an embrace. It’s better than he had imagined—but there’s something distracting him from truly enjoying the moment.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, because he must. There’s no persona he can adopt now to make this any better. He’s back to being himself: an insecure boy in desperate need of some validation.

“You sell yourself short, Commander.” It’s the only answer you give, undeterred by his apprehension, before leaning fully into him.

When you kiss him, he leaves his eyes open for a moment to make sure that he’s not dreaming. He doesn’t want to move, refuses even to breathe, afraid that you might stop. Your mouth is soft and warm against his, and surprisingly gentle, like you’re trying not to startle him. When your hand wraps around the back of his neck, pulling him closer, he finally lets his eyelids flutter closed, fully prepared to enjoy this moment. He’s surprised to find that he feels good, _very good_ , despite his doubts. There’s something about you that makes him feel safe, even if he’s not quite sure what he’s doing.

The feeling doesn’t last long; just as he’s beginning to enjoy himself—adoring the feeling of your body against his, the way your hands run gently through his hair, the thrill that something like this is happening to him, and with someone like you—there’s a muffled noise outside the door, the hushed tones of conversation. At first, he’s able to ignore them, but they grows louder—inescapable—and he’s sure that it will require his attention.

He pulls back, and you follow him lazily, unaware of the commotion happening just outside, nuzzling your face into his neck, pressing soft kisses into the skin of his throat. He shudders, distracted, before catching himself, putting a hand on your shoulder and creating some distance.

“You need to hide,” he says urgently, looking around his office before landing on the desk in front of him. It’s not an ideal space, but it’s the only one where you’ll be shielded from view of the doorway.

“What are you-” you start to ask, but he cuts you off, guiding you below his desk, and you go, despite your confusion, curling up and watching him with serious and questioning eyes. There’s no time to apologize, no time to regret the fact that you’ll probably never speak to him again after this; he’s already managed to ruin things. You’re sheltered now, and not a moment too soon; he’s just barely managed to rearrange himself into a believably casual position, looking over the documents on his desk when the door flies open. It’s his father, looking wild, followed quickly by Armitage’s new assistant, who is trying to both placate the general and apologize to Armitage at the same time.

“What the fuck do you think you’re you doing?” Brendol says with an accusatory glare, brushing his secretary out of the way more with more force than necessary, and Armitage stands, hoping his father won’t come any closer.

“I’m going over the plans, like you requested, General,” his father silences him, pointing at him with one shaking hand, his leather glove squeaking quietly as his fingers flex against each other. He forces himself to keep his eyes on his father, away from the area below his desk. Had the general found out about your visit? He had tried to be inconspicuous, but Brendol had ways of knowing things his son would rather keep private.

“Not now, stupid boy!” he yells, moving closer, and Armitage moves around his desk, cutting him off from your hiding place. Brendol’s hand makes a fist in Armitage’s uniform, pulling him closer.

“You went behind my back to the admiral,” it’s not phrased like a question, but Brendol waits anyways for Armitage to confirm, searching for the truth in his son’s eyes. Despite himself, and his precarious situation, Armitage is relieved. He wouldn’t phrase it that way, exactly, but he did speak to the admiral about his initial ideas on the plans before going to his father. Of course Brendol would interpret his actions as subterfuge, but Armitage doesn’t care about that right now. He just wants to keep you safe.

“General, I-” the back of his father’s hand collides with his cheek, and Armitage is thrown down to the desk with the force of the blow, bright spots appearing in his vision. A thought floats through his head, singularly lucid in his currently hazy mind: his father is breaking all of his own rules. He has an audience: Armitage’s assistant, still in the room, standing with her hands over her mouth with an almost-comical level of surprise; he’s leaving visible marks, aiming for the face; and he has not bothered to remove his gloves, denying himself the thrill of feeling his son’s skin bruise under the flesh of his hand.

Armitage turns back to his father, anticipating the next blow, but there’s a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, and a hideous dread rising in his stomach, threatening to escape. He has regained enough presence of mind to see a new scene unfold before him, one that he his powerless to stop: his father, a leather-covered hand flying through the air, and you, out of hiding, blocking its intended target.

The impact shatters the room, or maybe it only shatters Armitage, who swears that he can feel it reverberate in his chest, the moments after long and silent and soaked in a blood-colored rage. Your appearance does not deter Brendol, does not prompt him to ask any questions about why you’re here and what you’re doing. It only serves to provoke him further, and he recoils his fist again.

“ _No_ ,” the sound comes deep from within Armitage’s chest, and he strikes out as well, gripping his father’s wrist in his hand and forcing it upwards, blocking the punch instinctively. Armitage stares into his father’s eyes as he keeps his hold and sees an emotion that would look at home on any other face, but never here. Fear. Plain. Potent. Unmistakable. For a moment Armitage is stunned as he looms over the man. Had his father always been this much smaller than him? Or does the look in his eyes just make him appear that way?

You lurch back to standing, holding your face in your hands, blood pouring from between your fingers and a fire in your eyes as you stare Brendol down. You don’t have your weapons, and for that Armitage is grateful, because it seems to him that you would end Brendol here and now if you could, regardless of the number of witnesses. Armitage releases his hold on his father, gripping you by the shoulders and turning you to face him. Your nose is swollen, maybe broken, and there’s blood smeared across your mouth, the lips he had kissed what felt like a lifetime ago stained red.

“We’re leaving,” he says, and his father stands in stunned silence. Armitage doesn’t wait for permission, wrapping a protective arm around your shoulders and pulling you to the door. His assistant steps out of the way, clearing the path, the same expression of shock on her face.

“Wait one damned minute!” Brendol yells, finally recovering, holding his arm out as if to pull his son back but he doesn’t make contact, even though Armitage is still within reach.

“I will not have my own son disobey me and get away with it. Have you no shame?” His father tries to regain an air of authority, but the illusion is gone. Armitage can see him for what he really is—a tyrant and a bully, grasping for power in the pain that he causes.

“If you ever raise a hand against me again, father, you’ll see exactly how shameless I can be.” The threat lands, and Brendol is left slack-jawed, watching blankly as his son walks away.

There are eyes on both of you as he walks you through the ship, officers with questions written plainly on their faces. He’s sure it must be a sight to see: you with your swollen features and blood-covered hands, and his own injured face, distorted by the bruise undoubtedly spreading over his cheek, but he stares down anyone brave enough to meet his gaze, and they look away.

“Where are you taking me?” you ask quietly, breathing heavily through parted lips.

“The medbay. Someone needs to look at your nose.” 

You pull him to a stop, “I have a medkit on my ship,” and then with a painful-looking smile, “I think I may have overstayed my welcome.” Reluctantly, Armitage obliges, following you now in the direction of the hangar where you had docked.

You lead him aboard your ship, guiding him by the hand, and then close the hatch behind you. The space is clean, quiet and dark, and Armitage does not have a chance to adjust to the dim lighting before you pull him further in towards a set of shelves, finding the medkit you had mentioned. He takes it from your trembling hands, leading you now to find a seat on a small cot set up against the wall.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, kneeling on the hard floor of the ship and holding your face in one hand, trying to get a better look at the damage his father had done. He feels no anger now that he’s alone with you, but a cold determination instead, one that settles into a space below his heart. His father will pay for what he’s done; he’ll make sure of it.

“I did, though,” you say, with a little gasp. He’s afraid it might be the pain, and he releases his hold, but you grab his hand and bring it to your cheek, resting against his palm with a serene expression. The blood trailing from your nose has reduced to a slow trickle, but bruises have started to appear, twin marks beneath your eyes growing darker with time.

“When will I see you again?” you whisper your question into his palm, and your breath tickles against his hand. The gesture fills him with warmth, the now-familiar thrill of being close to you, but he pulls away, opening the medkit and wiping the blood from your face. You scrutinize his movements, and he can’t resist the urge to run the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip once all the blood is cleaned away.

“As soon as you’d like.” He’s not sure if it’s true, but he wants it to be. His father would be an obstacle to that, certainly, but Armitage is prepared to take care of it.

“I’m sorry,” you’re crying, the tears trailing down your cheeks, a small sob escaping your throat.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Armitage replies, a little dumbfounded. If anything, he should be apologizing to you for dragging you into this. You pull him off the floor so that he can sit beside you, resting your head on his shoulder. He’s tired. Despite the ache in his face, he finds himself dozing as he lies with his cheek against your hair, breathing in your scent that can most closely be described as _home_. You intertwine your fingers, resting your hand against his thigh. He wants to live in this feeling, but there’s business he must take care of now, before things with his father get out of hand. Brendol will not forget Armitage’s disobedience so quickly; he’s probably scheming against him right now. Armitage stands, and you look up at him with sad eyes, holding his hand in yours, unwilling to part so soon.

“Shouldn’t we discuss our plans … for your father?” you ask, trying to pull him close again. He wishes he could stay, but chooses to satisfy himself with a kiss pressed to your forehead instead, releasing your hand and walking towards the hatch.

“I’ll take care of it,” after everything you’ve been through, he doesn’t want you coming anywhere near his father ever again. It’s time for Brendol to get a taste of his own medicine. 


	8. Secret Admirer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Could you write about a heated argument between Hux and a reader? And make it really angsty - but with a good ending?? :3
> 
> Absolutely! I hope you like it 😊
> 
> Requests are closed for now ✨ ( I think I have 4 or 5 more that I still need to finish? Once those are done, requests will be open again 👀)
> 
> Armitage Hux x Reader
> 
> Warnings: Language, and some angst 😏

The flowers are already at your workstation when you arrive with the general, too early for anyone else to be awake, let alone at work. Someone must have left them the night before. Hux seems just as surprised as you do, so you can cross him off the mental suspect list, but he watches you closely to see how you’ll react. Reluctance wells up in you as you move to your station, and a part of you wonders if you can simply ignore the gift; and by extension make Hux ignore it too.

Your relationship with him is new, and fragile. In fact, _relationship_ might be too strong a word. _Was_ there even a word to describe the connection you had developed? Occasionally making out in his office and eating meals together at odd times when everyone else was sleeping didn’t exactly scream _commitment_. And you weren’t really trying to have any conversation about what you meant to him, either. Why ruin a good thing?

“Flowers?” he asks, peering over your shoulder at the arrangement, and you nod noncommittally, moving them to the side to begin your work for the day.

“Who are they from?” He’s still behind you, leaning in close, and he smells so damn good that for a moment you freeze. It’s addicting, strangely so, and brings back too many memories: the edge of his desk cutting into your hips as he pressed against you, the feeling of his hands running over every part of you, so urgent it seemed like he might die if he stopped, the gentle thrum of his pulse as you pressed passionate kisses into his neck. That same smell overpowering your senses.

“I don’t know,” you clear your throat and your mind, shaking off the smell of cigarettes and leather, trying to focus on your work.

“There’s a note,” he says it casually, but his eyes are razor sharp as you reach for the small piece of flimsi tucked between the blossoms. Your eyes scan over the words written, searching for a name. After a minute, you fold the paper closed again, slapping it down on your desk.

“Well?” he’s irritated, and not in the fun way—where he pins your wrists behind your back and kisses you hard in whatever storage closet is closest. This irritation is much worse.

“There isn’t a name,” you say, hoping pointlessly that he might still drop it if you’re uncooperative enough. Little chance of that.

“What does it say?” he asks again, and you give up, handing him the note. It’s not very long, but he stares at the paper for minutes, reading the words over and over again, and with each repetition his brow furrows more. The only three that matter anyways are tacked on at the end. _Your secret admirer_.

“It’s not a big deal,” you say preemptively, hoping to curb whatever anger he might be cultivating, “they’re just flowers.” How does one even get flowers onto a First Order ship? Just thinking about the kind of planning that would take—the _credits_ that it would take—makes your head hurt. If you had known that this was how your morning would start off, you would have planned to be here earlier. You could have thrown the stupid flowers away before Hux ever saw them,and banished the whole incident from your mind. Then again, if you hadn’t seen him looking so surprised, you might have foolishly assumed they were from him.

“Who do you think it is?” he asks, throwing the note back on your desk. He’s trying to look uninterested, but you can tell that it bothers him by the way he adjusts his gloves, in the rigidity of his posture. He’s all tensed up, mentally tabulating every person you’ve ever talked to, evaluating the threat. 

“I don’t know,” you say, inching the flowers ever closer to the edge of your desk, trying to distance yourself from the conflict as much as possible, “and I don’t really care. If they wanted me to know, they would have put their name on the note.” 

“Maybe a security droid caught them in the act,” he says, reaching for his data pad, “I’ll check the feed-” you cut him off, stopping his hand with your own.

“Don’t do that,” you say. There’s something edgy about the contact in its complete lack of intimacy or passion, and you let go immediately, like you’d been shocked. “If the person who sent me these wants me to know who they are, they’ll tell me.”

“I don’t understand why you don’t care.” The cracks are appearing in his apathetic demeanor and he’s dripping with irritation, not at the so-called secret admirer, but at _you,_ for some reason. Like this is your fault.

“I don’t understand why _you_ do,” your voice sounds too angry, even to your own ears, and you wish you could take the words back, but they’re already gone. General Hux stops for a moment, and you think that there’s genuine hurt, plain on his face. You had tried so hard to avoid any conversation like this and now it seems it’s happening anyways, only much, much worse.

“It seems I shouldn’t,” he says, and any trace of emotion is gone, replaced with indifference again. He walks away without so much of a backwards glance, and you wilt in your seat, staring down the arrangement with loathing, just barely resisting the urge to pick it up and throw it against the nearest wall.

The rest of your day is somehow worse than the already-terrible start. You try to stay focused, but your eyes keep wandering to the flowers, rekindling your rage, which dissipates every time the general passes by and is replaced with a swimming guilt. By the time your shift ends, you’ve planned at least fifty ways you could get rid of the flowers, each more violent than the next. You take them with you to your chambers, ready to rip apart each blossom one by one and shove them in a waste receptacle, but by the time you arrive, you’ve lost all of the anger that had been consuming you. There was no point in destroying the flowers; you weren’t angry at them, or at your secret admirer. You were angry at yourself. For hurting Hux, for letting him think that you didn’t care about him when in reality you cared too much. 

You’d have to apologize, and sooner rather than later. Your stomach rolls with nerves, but you set the flowers down anyways, forcing yourself back out of your quarters and in the direction of Hux’s office. There’s no guarantee that he’ll be there—it is rather late—but you’re determined to find him. If he’s not in his office, you’ll have to check the bridge. And his quarters. Fuck, at this point, you’d check the trash compactor if it meant getting rid of the guilt threatening to swallow you from the inside out.

Lucky for you, he’s in the first place you check, looking over some new stormtrooper helmet designs with Captain Phasma. He doesn’t look up at you when you enter, finishing some comment about the placement of the filters, and your nerves reach a fever pitch. Maybe this was a bad idea.

“Did you need something?” he asks, and you don’t realize that he’s speaking to you, his eyes still latched onto the design in front of him.

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, General, but I was hoping to speak with you,” you trail off, waiting, but neither of them respond, and you’re forced to continue, “… alone?” There’s a moment of silent communication between the captain and Hux, and you’re wondering if you should leave, maybe quit your job and move to a different ship. Stars, this is _embarrassing_. A lifetime later, it seems, the captain stands, stalking past you to the exit, but the cold black gaps in her helmet stay trained on you. It’s impossible to know what the captain is feeling, but you can be pretty sure that she knows about you, and what you did, and that she doesn’t approve. Shit.

The door slides closed and you’re left alone, fidgeting and avoiding eye contact. To make matters worse, the general seems wholly unaffected by your presence, if not a little annoyed. 

“Was there something that you needed?” he asks, and you force yourself to move, taking the seat across from him.

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry,” you begin, wringing your hands so hard it’s like you’re trying to remove the skin, “about this morning. I shouldn’t have gotten angry with you, and I shouldn’t have said the things that I did.” You wait without breathing, watching him for any kind of reaction, but the tightness in your chest doesn’t give. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve told yourself that you just wanted to apologize, you know that’s not true. You want him to forgive you, and you’re not prepared for the alternative.

“What am I to you?” he asks after an eternity, and you let out an unsteady breath, trying your hardest not to get your hopes up. What kind of a response is that? 

“You’re my commanding officer?” you say, even though you’re fairly certain that’s not the answer he’s looking for, but you’re not about to give him everything right now if he’s not willing to return it. Making the apology was already difficult enough.

“No,” he says, standing, leaning over the desk on both his hands. Stars, he looks good from that angle, distractingly good, and you practically have to peel your eyes away from his jawline, the way it flexes in frustration as he repeats the question, “what am I to _you_? What is this … _thing_ that we’ve been doing? What are we?” Here it is, finally. Your chance to make things right. Earlier this morning, you would have preferred to give Commander Ren a hug from behind if it meant avoiding this conversation with the general, but now it’s your only hope.  
“I don’t know, really,” you begin, biting your lip, “but I don’t want it to stop. And I’d really like it to be more. If that’s what you want, of course.” You spit the words out haltingly, waiting for his response. He stares at you for a moment, expression blank, eyes fathomless, and your heart drops out of your chest, the sting of rejection bringing tears to your eyes, threatening to spill over. _Great_. Crying on your way out of his office would be the perfect end to the galaxy’s shittiest day.

“I feel the same,” he says, so quietly you almost don’t hear, and you leap from your seat before you can stop yourself, pulling him in for a kiss, feeling your heartbeat explode out of your chest. He smiles against your mouth, and you do too, hardly able to believe it. He feels the same. He _wants_ you.

He breaks the kiss to move around the desk, pulling you into his arms. It’s the first embrace of its kind—free of lustful hands and bruised lips—but it’s definitely your favorite. This is what you always wanted, to be held like this. Everything else had been a consolation prize, and now—lucky you—you get _both_.

“Do you know why I didn’t care who sent the flowers?” you ask, your words muffled against the front of his uniform and he chuckles at the sensation, relaxing his grip only slightly so that you can look up at his face.

“Why?” He’s still trying to shelter his emotions, but he’s unsuccessful, the smile he has refusing to leave. You’ll never get enough of his joy. You’ll never create enough of it, but this is a good start. 

“Because I already knew it wasn’t you. And you’re the only one I want.”


	9. Something to Live For Pt. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the final part of the Hux x Reader Soulmate! AU. I’ve been thinking about this story for a long time and I’m glad to finally finish it 💖
> 
> Armitage Hux x Resistance Pilot! Reader Soulmate AU Pt. 3
> 
> Warnings: Angst, violence against the reader, and language (also TROS spoilers and canon divergence? If anybody still cares about that ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯)

You don’t even bother to turn around when the door opens. It doesn’t matter that he’s here much earlier than you expected him, a first, or even that he doesn’t bother to close the door after him, which never happens. Of course it’s the general. You believe it’s the general because he _told_ you from the very beginning that no one else had access to you here on the _Steadfast_ , and you trusted him. You still trust him, even now.

“I wasn’t expecting you until later,” you say, “I thought-” the blow comes hard to the back of your neck, harder still because you did not anticipate it, and your head snaps forward, throwing your momentum. Your shins slam against the slab you’d been sleeping on since you’d arrived and you brace your hand on the wall in front of you, trying to recover from the pain: twin flashes at the base of your neck and in your legs, radiating outward and sending your body into a panic.

“What are you talking about?” You don’t recognize the voice. Fear slips in, like water flooding the room, gathering around your ankles, and your mind reels. You’re not alone with the general like you’d thought. You’re not with the general at all.

You turn to face the visitor— _visitors_ —you learn: two troopers in your cell with you, both carrying blasters. You swallow, your tongue suddenly desert-dry. One grabs you by the arm, and you struggle against him, trying to pull yourself out of his grasp, but you’re unsuccessful, and your other arm is secured by his partner, who begins to pull you to the door.

“Where are you taking me?” you ask, planting your feet against the durasteel floor, searching hopelessly for purchase, for resistance.

“You’ve been scheduled for execution, rebel scum,” one says, but you can’t tell which, your terror and their voice modulators making it impossible to sense the source of the sound. There must be some mistake. The general would never let this happen. You form a haphazard lie, hoping to stall for time.

“The general has granted me immunity based on the information I gave him about the First Order spy,” you say, but your voice shakes, and you curse yourself silently. You have to make this believable. You have to give the general a chance to get to you, to stop this, “I want to speak to General Hux.” The troopers laugh, a cold, cruel sound made colder by the apparatuses covering their faces, and they share a glance over your head—some wicked joke and you don’t know the punchline.

“The general was the one who ordered your execution.”

He can hear your screams from down the hall. Loud cries for help that bounce off the walls, refracting down the corridor and turning into a chorus of fear, chipping away at his heart. If this doesn’t end quickly, he’ll die. He can’t exist in the same world as your sadness. He can’t live knowing that he’s the cause.

It’s the same word, repeated over and over again, ripping through your vocal chords and shattering his resolve. _Please_. Over and over. You don’t say his name, but he knows without question that you’re calling for him, even now.

One of the men in front of him, the pilot, struggles against another trooper’s hold, turning to the source of your screams, trying to see.

“Who is that?” he asks no one in particular, turning to his companion, the traitor. There’s panic in his eyes, and he fights harder, almost escaping from the trooper’s grasp, repeating louder this time, “who is that?” The blow delivered to the back of his head silences him, but his eyes stay on the door, still searching. You’re pulled into the room by two troopers, and the fight leaves you for a moment when you recognize the others.

“Poe! Finn!” their names come out strangled, and they return your cries, their voices overlapping in a rough flurry of questions. You’re not looking at them anymore, though, your attention has been seized by his own presence. Your eyes are locked on General Hux, and when he looks at you, he can’t look away.

Your face is tear-stained and wild, pieces of hair sticking to your skin, and you freeze when you see him, but your expression is a locked door. Did you really believe that he’d protect you for this long only to have you killed? He can’t know for sure, but he hopes against hope that you find some way to trust him.

Your companions are quieted with a rough slap from the other troopers, who step back to form a firing squad, blasters raised. Your back is turned to him, and you’re shaking, but he watches as you reach out one uncuffed hand, gripping the pilot’s arm and holding it tight in a gesture of comfort.

“Actually, I’d like to do this myself,” Hux finds himself speaking the words he had planned, and he’s grateful that he sounds more in control than he feels. The trooper hands him the blaster, and he raises it, breathing deeply. There would be no going back after this. There’d be no time to plan any contingencies, no way to change his mind. He curses the arrival of your friends, the slipshod plan he was forced to throw together. It was foolish, _worse_ than foolish. It was reckless.

The stormtroopers don’t have a chance to react before they’re on the ground, and Hux doesn’t have time to react before he’s almost knocked over as well, your body colliding with his like a durasteel wall. You run at him, colliding with such force that he’s thrown off balance, barely able to keep on his feet. He waits stupidly for you to knock him over, to punish him for the pain he caused, but you stay standing, your arms wrapped around his neck. _It’s an embrace_ , he realizes when your grasp tightens, holding him tighter. No one has ever hugged him before. He drops the blaster, but leaves his hands at his sides, bewildered.

“I was so afraid!” You’re chattering into his ear as you hold him, the fear and surprise pouring out of your mouth in a stream of words, “when they told me that you had ordered—I mean I never believed it—but I was still so _scared_ ,” you pull away from him, trying to get a good look at his face, and your hand comes down from his shoulder, stopping above his heart, which stutters under your fingers. Your brow furrows as you trace the line down his chest, and you look up at him with a question in your eyes. You can tell that he’s not wearing a blaster vest; you know he lied to you. You open your mouth to ask him about it when you’re interrupted by the others.

“Uh, hi. Would one of you tell us what’s going on here?” the pilot, Dameron, asks, his eyes flashing between the two of you expectantly.

“There’s no time to explain,” you say, moving to help them with their cuffs, “but the general is going to help us get out of here.”

“Armitage,” Hux says, stupidly. He’s still thinking about the hug, and it’s made him gummy, unable to filter his thoughts.

“What?” You ask without looking at him, dropping the cuffs to the ground and picking up a blaster off of one of the troopers. Dameron and the traitor share a glance, and the pilot shrugs.

“My name is Armitage,” he says again, unable to turn back now, and you look at him, your face lighting up with a smirk.

“Tell you what, General,” you say, “when you get us off this damn ship, I’ll call you whatever you want.”

The five of you race down the hallways, following his lead. You hang back, with the pilot, and though Hux is sure they have questions, they recognize that now is not the time to voice them. Apparently you don’t feel the same.

“So, when were you guys going to tell me I looked this bad in orange?” you ask the two of them casually, and they stop, shocked.

“Wait a second …” Dameron says, pulling you to a halt, and you shrug. His eyes flash to the general again. 

“Him?” the traitor—Finn—cries, pointing at Hux, and he balls his fists at his sides, uncomfortable with the attention you’ve drawn to him. 

“Oh I’m sorry,“ you say, voiced laced with sarcasm, “not all of us can be soulmates with Poe _fucking_ Dameron.” Poe smirks, and Finn finds it in himself to smile as well.

“You’re right about that,” he says, and the two men take off again, having accepted the information. You stay for a moment, and Hux waits with you.

“They’re soulmates?” He asks, and you nod. Hux lets out a derisive snort in response. _Figures_. It’s just more evidence that the universe is determined to fuck him over. You reach out, grabbing his hand, and pull him further down the corridor.

Hux is breathing hard as he shuts down the impeeders, and opens the door for the others. Finn and the pilot run through, headed for the ship. He’s running out of time. He doesn’t want to say goodbye.

“Let’s go,” you say, pulling him to the door, but he holds back. He’d like for this to be different. He’d like to hold you again, to see you smile. To sit in the dark with you, and know that you trust him. But he’ll have to satisfy himself with this instead: your hand in his and your brows furrowed. He hopes it will be enough to strengthen him through what is to come.

“Shoot me in the arm,” he says, dropping your hand and gesturing to your blaster, “I’ll tell them you forced my hand.”

“What are you talking about?” you ask, reaching for him again, but he pulls away. “If you go back there, they’ll kill you.” The hard set of your eyes is lost as realization dawns on you, as you connect the pieces of his plan.

“It has to be this way,” he says, dropping his gaze and you pull it back with your hand on his jaw. There’s determination in your eyes, a look he’s grown to recognize. A look that makes him weak.

“Then I’ll go with you,” you say, and you raise your blaster. He’s crushed under your gaze. He always knew this would be difficult, but now he thinks that it will break him. Your loyalty is misplaced. He’s bound to disappoint you.

“Please,” he’s begging now, trying to will you through the door and out of harm’s way. Your friends are waiting, he can see the ship still, but you’re all running out of time. “I can’t,” he doesn’t want to say it, but he knows he must if he’s going to convince you, “I can’t be good for you … I don’t know if I can be a _good_ man,” you pull him closer, your eyes boring into his, trying to sway him, and he has to brace himself, his hand finding your waist like it’s meant to be there.

“I don’t care, I don’t care, _I don’t care_ ,” you repeat yourself, desperate. He can almost feel it, when he’s this close—the influence pulling you together. He has to believe it, the truth of soulmates, when he has you in his arms. He wants to stay with you, he wants it more than he can stand, and you see it. After all his planning, after anticipating this from the beginning, his resolve is crumbling under your touch.

“If you leave me,” you say, in a final attempt to tip the scales, “who will stop me from being so reckless?” Damn you.

He gives in; what choice does he have? You see it and you smile, pulling him through the hangar and onto the waiting ship. He looks back, taking it in for the last time. This was all he had ever known. He was leaving it behind. For a moment, the uncertainty overwhelms him, and he forces himself to focus on the feeling of your hand in his. He doesn’t have a plan. He doesn’t know what will happen next, and yet, he’s never felt better. Maybe there are benefits to being reckless.


	10. For Good Luck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course! IDK if this is as fluffy as you wanted, but I kind of ran with it, and I think that the ending is nice and soft! Hope you like it 😊
> 
> Requests are closed for now, but will be opening again very soon ✨
> 
> Armitage Hux x Nurse! Reader
> 
> Warnings: Language, an injury and some medical care including needles!

“He’s asked for you again,” Tayan says in a sing-song voice, and you look away from him to hide your blush. It’s no secret—to you or anyone else working in the medbay—that the general prefers you over the others. The real secret is _why_ he prefers you, which is something you’re not really sure about yourself.

“What’s he here for?” you ask, leaning over the workstation to get a look at the report on the data pad, but he hides it from your view.

“Split lip and a bruised ego,” Tayan says with a shit-eating grin, “do you think you can kiss it better?” He bats his eyelashes in mock innocence, and you shove him in the shoulder, rolling your eyes. You’ve told him before—sworn on your life—that it wasn’t like that, had _never_ even come close to that, and he still wouldn’t believe you. Not that the truth is any more believable.

“How’d it happen?” you ask, changing the subject, still trying to peek at the screen.

“Haven’t you heard?” he says, waggling his eyebrows at you. Tayan, you’ve learned since joining the _Finalizer_ crew, is a terrible gossip. Those words come out of his mouth about as often as he breathes. Only half the information he imparts is actually true, but you don’t hold it against him. It is, after all, very entertaining.

“The Resistance escaped.” His expression darkens, any trace of laughter gone, an unfamiliar hardness set in his eyes.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, “are you serious?” He doesn’t have to respond. Not even Tayan would joke about something like that.

“The Supreme Leader was livid when he found out,” he continues, expression still grave, “I heard from Mina on the bridge that he threw the general into a wall.”

“Damn,” there’s not much else to say, and your heart breaks for the general, but you hope Tayan won’t see that as silence falls over the two of you for a moment, thinking about what might happen next. It’s times like this that make you grateful you’re not the one in charge.

“I guess the general’s been summoned to the _Supremacy_ ,” Tayan continues lightly, restored to his normal self, “but he had to say goodbye to his _girlfriend_ first.” He drags the word _girlfriend_ out like a little boy, and needles you in the side with his elbow when he says it. You flinch away from him, stifling a laugh. A comment like that doesn’t deserve a response, but you sink to his level anyway, flashing him a rude gesture before heading down to the exam rooms.

The prickling excitement begins at the base of your neck, and you force yourself to tamp it down. This is no time for flirting; obviously the general would be upset, and you’d have to be mindful of that. The flirting was mostly one-sided anyways, but occasionally you’d get a glimpse of something different, something softer. You lived for those glimpses.

When you first began working as a medbay attendant on the _Finalizer_ , the general was essentially a myth. You never saw him, but you heard enough from the others to know that he didn’t like the medbay, and any time he was forced to come, well . . . everyone had a horror story, it seemed, and they all loved repeating them when shifts got slow. Personally, you had a hard time believing that the general could really be _that_ bad, but that didn’t mean you had been excited when that asshole, Dr. Hebbit, had told you that it was your turn to perform the general’s quarterly check-up.

You had been certain that the others were playing a joke on you after the appointment. The general had been a model patient; the check up went smoothly as he obliged each of your requests without a word. When you finished, he had left with a curt nod, and that was it. The other medbay attendants had lost their shit when you told them that nothing had happened. Everyone had their own theory why the general hadn’t lashed out at you, but Tayan’s line of thinking had definitely been the most popular. Against your will, a little blossom of hope sprung up in your chest. 

Things only got stranger. After that first meeting, the general was in and out of the medbay on a regular basis, always for minor complaints, and always when you were working. You tried not to think too much of it, but that didn’t stop you from lighting up every time you heard that he needed your help.

And then once, just as you were cleaning up, you felt him behind you. Every part of you was on high alert, addicted to the tension but forced to ignore it as you washed your hands. 

“Thank you for your service today,” he said, and one of his hands came forward—still without touching you—fingering a tendril of hair that had slipped out from where you had secured it. He slipped it back behind your ear, and you shuddered, tempted to lean back into him—so that you could _feel_ him there, so you would be sure you weren’t hallucinating. And then he was gone. 

Moments like that happened a few more times, and every time they occupied an even larger part of your mind. It was enough to drive you insane, but no matter how much you wanted it, nothing more had happened. That didn’t stop you from imagining what it would be like. 

You clear your mind as you enter the exam room, and there’s a stab of pain in your chest when you see him. He’s never looked this _small_ before, his shoulders slumped as he studies the floor, but you clear your throat to announce your arrival, and his posture straightens.

“Hello general,” you say, adopting your typical bedside manner, “I’m here to take a look at your injury.” He nods, watching you with careful eyes as you scrub your hands and then put on a pair of exam gloves. There’s already a supply tray set up by the exam table, and you glance over it quickly, checking to make sure that you have everything that you’ll need. Once you’re sure that you’re sure that it’s all in order, you can get started.

“I’ll need to take a closer look,” you say, gently taking the general’s jaw into your hands with a glass-delicate grip, and he opens his mouth obediently so that you can see the wound. It’s a small gash on the inner corner of his mouth, dripping a steady stream of blood down his chin and onto his neck, and you catch yourself thinking about cleaning it off with your tongue.

 _Gross_ , you scold yourself, rolling your eyes, a flush appearing on your cheeks. _That_ needs to stop.

“Something wrong?” the general asks, the muscles of his jaw flexing under your hands, and you stiffen in surprise.

“No, sir,” the words come out rushed, and you look away, hoping he can’t tell how embarrassed you are, “just something in my eye.” It’s a weak excuse, but he doesn’t question it, and you grab a wipe, clearing off the blood with gentle precision. He smells like mint, and antiseptic, and the coppery sting of blood—none of which you particularly like—but now you think it might be your new favorite combination. 

“The good news is that it's relatively small,” you continue, applying a little pressure to the wound to staunch the flow of blood, “but the bad news is that you’ll probably need at least one stitch to keep it closed. I’d use bacta, but I don’t think it will work very well in such a moist environment.” You cringe inwardly; it’s strange to talk about the general’s mouth, especially when you have a finger inside of it, but if he’s bothered, it doesn’t show. And if he _likes_ it, that doesn’t really show either. 

“I can get a doctor to do it, if you’d prefer,” you offer, out of habit. You’d given plenty of stitches working the medbay, but most people were a little less trusting when you had a needle in their face. Still, the sharp sting of jealousy bites at your heart. You’d come to think of the general as _your_ patient, and you’re not really interested in sharing.

“That’s not necessary,” he says, and you relax only for a moment before you’re tense again at the thought of getting that much closer to the general’s mouth.

“This will hurt,” you say, and the general nods. "Do you want anything for the pain?" Another shake of the head, and you thread the needle.

He shivers when you turn back, glancing at the needle out of the corner of his eye, but you don't think it's from fear. Gently, and with more feeling than you’d like, you stroke your thumb over his bottom lip, and they part once again. You get closer, adjusting yourself between the general’s legs so that you can have a better view of the area. It’s not _strictly_ necessary, but it does improve your view just enough to be worth it.

You hold the general’s lip down with one hand, and approach with the needle in the other. Just as you’re about to break the surface of the skin, he stops you, gripping your wrist with one gloved hand. You practically jump out of your skin, the movement startles you so badly, and it’s only by sheer luck that you keep hold of the needle. He studies the inner skin of your arm, completely ignoring the confusion in your expression, and thumbs the edge of your glove away, exposing the veins right at the bend where your wrist meets your hand. He pulls your wrist closer, like he’s going to bite you, but instead he presses his soft lips to the exposed area, and your vision blurs around the edges. The blood rushes from your head, and your pulse explodes under the contact. Your knees threaten to buckle underneath you when you feel the faintest trace of his tongue run over your skin, but he holds your wrist more tightly, holding you up. 

Your face is on fire when he finally returns your gaze, and although his expression is calm and untroubled, there’s a blaze beneath it. He wants you. He’s made that perfectly clear.

“For good luck,” he says, releasing his grip, and you’re shaking, your mind gone hazy from the unexpected turn of events. How’re you going to pull a needle through his skin now? You close your eyes and take a few grounding breaths, waiting for the blood to return to your normally-steady fingers, but it’s difficult when you’re still thinking about his mouth.

By some miracle, you’re able to gain control once again with a superhuman amount of determination and the strict directive to avoid eye contact at all costs. Once you’ve accomplished that, the actual stitching is fairly easy, and you tie it off with a quick flourish.

“All done,” you say, dropping the needle on the tray and removing your gloves. Even though your hands are steady, your voice still shakes, and you’re not ready to look at him just yet. “Just make sure you don’t smile for a few days.” He snorts in response as he stands, and you scold yourself. Of course he wouldn’t be smiling. Not where he was going.

Thinking about it again brings the feeling of a knife blade to your heart. He would be leaving, this is the last time you’d see him in a long time, maybe forever. Another stab of pain arrives; that was why he finally made his desires clear. He knew this was his last chance.

“General, wait-” you call out, but to your surprise, he hasn’t left yet. In fact, he’s still right behind you, as if he was waiting for this moment. The determination you had moments ago withers slightly and you find yourself looking up through your eyelashes, suddenly shy.

“Yes?” he asks, like he always knew you’d end up here, and you raise your hand, emboldened, fitting it behind his neck.

“For good luck,” you whisper, closing the gap. You press your lips gently to his, hoping to preserve the stitch, but the general doesn’t seem to care about that as he holds your face in both his hands, hunger apparent in every movement, need laid out before you. You know the stitch has to be pulling at the tissue, threatening to pop, and you taste the blood as his tongue meets yours, but all of it is so far outside your realm of concern right now. He’s kissing you back. _Finally_.

You part from him, reluctantly, as he pulls away from you, hoping for just one moment more. You know you’re doe-eyed when he looks at you, already cursing the heat in your cheeks, wishing you could be less-obviously enamored. Hating how much you care. The general looks indifferent, to your dismay, there’s no trace of his visit to the medbay visible at all. Like you never existed. Moments ago you were rippling with happiness and now you’re left empty.

“I’m leaving for the Supremacy,” General Hux says, adjusting the perfect fit of his uniform, and you nod quickly. The sooner he leaves, the better. You don’t want him to see you cry. The traitorous tears come anyways, and you turn away from him, clearing off the supply tray and hoping he won’t notice. The act works so well, you almost don’t hear his next words. “I’d like for you to come with me, transfer to the medbay there.” You look at him again in surprise, and you see it: the softness he had only barely begun to show there in full force.

“Do you anticipate needing much medical care, General?” You’re not sure if you meant it as a joke or if you’re searching for some kind of validation, but either way the general doesn’t laugh. No, instead he steps closer once again, tilting your gaze to meet his with a hand on your chin.

“No,” he says, “I just don’t want to go alone.” The reason doesn’t matter. You already know you’ll follow him anywhere.


	11. Graduation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could I please request Hux at the academy pining after his f! classmate?? How it resolves is up to you but I really love your writing and one of my favourite parts is how you write people pining! It's so sweet and really makes me feel the pangs of loneliness and flutters of excitement!
> 
> Definitely! And thank you for saying so many nice things about me 🥺
> 
> Requests are closed for now, but will be opening again very soon ✨
> 
> Armitage Hux x Classmate! Reader
> 
> Warnings: Fluff and Yearning 😘

Ranking days are the worst days at the Academy. Or at least, they’re the worst for Armitage, who is sure that they were invented solely for the purpose of embarrassing him. Finding ways to publicly shame his son is certainly something that his father would approve of, and Commandant Hardaws is always seeking for the general’s approval.

In reality, he shouldn’t be embarrassed by his ranking. In a class of more than thirty officers, second place was quite the achievement. No, the real embarrassment should be saved for people like Javy, who consistently fell to the bottom, or Ari, who could never rank anywhere above tenth. But it was Armitage who always felt the sting the most, because he _should_ be at the top, or at least, that’s the way it felt sometimes. After all, he had received the highest scores of anyone in both military strategy and history, and no one—on or off campus—could match his skills in the sniping simulations. And every time another quarter would end he always felt a small glimmer of hope, like this time he _really_ had won. Those hopes never paid off though. It seemed like Armitage was destined for second best.

This ranking day is shaping up to be the worst of them all; which is fitting, considering it’s the last. He files in with the rest of his class, finding a seat towards the front of the large assembly room, the other seats already filled with the younger cadets, who are chattering about plans for the short break they’ll have before classes resume again. Armitage has no such plans. After the ceremony—and his official graduation next week—he’ll be headed to join his father on the _Finalizer_. He has mixed feelings about it, for a number of reasons. 

His father is here actually, in attendance, sitting on the stage with some of the professors, and when he spies Armitage in the crowd a small frown appears on his face, like he’s smelled something bad. Hardaws—who most of the students refer to as _hardass_ when he isn’t around—moves to the front of the stage, signaling the beginning of the ceremony and everyone stands, saluting him in unison.

“Be seated,” he begins, reading from his prepared notes in a tedious tone, like he can’t wait to get this over with, “thank you for attending the final ranking ceremony for this cycle’s graduates. We are very proud of their dedication to the First Order, and all that it stands for,” Hardaws drones on for a moment before beginning with the actual ranking, reading off names of Armitage’s classmates, starting at the bottom. One by one, they walk to the stage, shaking hands with their professors and his father before returning to their seats.

Armitage listens without interest as Hardaws announces where each of his classmates will be placed upon graduation. Most of the lower-ranking cadets have already been assigned to menial positions at different First Order bases, and only a handful are assigned to work on star destroyers. He counts himself lucky.

“In second place, we have Cadet Armitage Hux,” Hardaws reads, and Armitage stands as the crowd offers him a light smattering of applause. He moves to the stage and shakes hands with his professors without much feeling. He likes them well enough, but he’s anxious to use the skills he’s learned in real life. He’s tired of simulations. Armitage returns to his seat, and some of the younger students begin whispering with excitement, ready for the ceremony to be over. 

“And the cadet with the highest ranking is-” Hardaws doesn’t even have to read your name; everyone in the Academy already knows who is at the top. The sound of applause fills the room before he finishes, and you stand, accepting the praise with a humble smile. Armitage watches you with careful eyes, and when you catch his gaze, your grin falters. You mouth something to him; he thinks it might be the word _sorry_. Armitage swallows hard, confused by the attention you’ve given him. What would you be sorry for? Beating him out for first place? He doesn’t hold it against you, and it’s more than well-deserved.

You move to the stage and the applause only grows louder, each professor shaking your hand in earnest as you move down the line, ending with his father, who—miracle of miracles—offers you a small smile as you salute him. A fatherly smile.

Armitage _should_ hate you. He should hate that you make it all look so easy, that you’ve beaten him consistently and done it seemingly without trying. But, despite the competition you’ve offered, you’re the only classmate that he _actually_ likes. It doesn’t help that you were always so nice to him—like the time you offered to work during with him on his hand-to-hand skills so that he wouldn’t fail the assessment during year one, or when you stood up to Kendaria after she called him a bitch in front of everyone in the commissary during year five. Armitage doesn’t hate you; in fact, you’re probably the one person he’ll miss the most, after all this is over. Not that he’d ever tell you that.

“She will also be joining the crew of the _Finalizer_ after graduation next week, as one of the star destroyer’s newest lieutenants,” Hardaws says, and Armitage freezes. Did he hear that right? He probably should have expected it; with scores like yours any general would be scrambling to take you on, but the _Finalizer_? With him? He’s not sure how to feel about that. Part of him is annoyed; it’s so like his father to pick you to join the crew to serve as a constant reminder of Armitage’s shortcomings. But he’s a little pleased as well. Now he won’t have to say goodbye. 

“That concludes this cycle’s ranking ceremony. Cadets dismissed.” Hardaws shuffles away from the podium, talking with the other professors, who all crowd around his father. For a moment, Armitage lingers, wondering if he should say goodbye, but he dismisses that thought. He hadn’t even bothered to say hello.

It’s raining as always, on Arkanis, and Armitage stays under the covered walkways as he makes his way back to the barracks. Most of the younger cadets are celebrating their dismissal, splashing around the puddles and making a mess of their uniforms. They’ll be going home tonight, to see their parents, and to spend two blissful weeks without any concerns of schoolwork or regulations. Armitage’s classmates are showing a little more self-control, but they aren’t immune to the feeling either. Technically, you’re all supposed to use the next week to prepare for your future assignments: studying up on the bases and ships, looking into possible specializations, but that’s unlikely—seeing as how none of you had been allowed to relax for even a moment during the last cycle. He suspects already that more than a few of his peers will be using this time to act out or party before the real work begins. He can’t help but feel a little hopeful as well, though. The worst has past, and soon he’ll finally be doing the work he’s trained for his whole life, and you’ll be there, too.

He can see you, a little ways ahead on the path, walking with your friend Keel. You’ve let your hair down—out of the regulation bun now that the ceremony is over—and you shake it out, running your fingers through it at the scalp. Not for the first time, Armitage admires the way you wear your cadet uniform. They’re designed for function—no one is _supposed_ to look good—but it’s somehow different on you than everyone else. Like it was made for you. A blush spreads across Armitage’s face, and he ducks his head down, hoping that no one will notice. He’s had thoughts like this before, but only when he was alone. He balls his hands into fists, squeezing them tightly, hoping to banish the idea of running his fingers through your hair, or unbuttoning the top of your uniform and pulling it down over your shoulders.

“Congratulations, Armitage,” he tries to sneak past you and Keel without notice, but apparently he’s been unsuccessful. He stops, turning to face you, and you wave goodbye to Keel, who heads to the year six barracks. The grounds are mostly empty now; you’re the only two left.

“Thank you. Congratulations to you, as well,” he says, and you smile, falling into step beside him. He’s known you for years, but suddenly he can’t think of a single thing to say to you. Despite the breeze blowing past, his palms are sweaty, and he knows he must look very stiff, walking with his arms pressed down so firmly at his sides.

“Are you excited for the cadet’s ball?” you ask, breaking the awkward silence, and he suppresses a groan. He had almost managed to forget; Armitage was not looking forward to three hours of standing up against the wall and watching everyone else dance. 

“I’ll be excited when we finally get to leave,” he answers, avoiding the question. He doesn’t need to explain all of his insecurities about dancing right now.

“I’m excited too,” you say, brushing the tips of your fingers over his arm for emphasis; it makes him go lightheaded, “have you spent much time on the _Finalizer_? With your father, I mean?”

“A little,” he says, reaching up to rub a hand over the back of his neck before he catches himself. He had spent some time on the _Finalizer_ , but his father had forbade him from traveling to any of the more exciting areas. He probably only knows about as much about the ship as you do.

“You’ll have to tell me all about it,” you say, and you stop when he stops outside the door of his shared quarters. “I don’t want to arrive unprepared.” You lean against the wall next to the door, chewing on your lip, and all of Armitage’s indecent thoughts from earlier are multiplied by a thousand. He really couldn’t wait to get to the _Finalizer_ now. Hours of inevitable grunt work would be slightly more bearable with you at his side.

“Of course,” he says, and your smile is vibrant. He never feels inadequate around you. When he’s with you, he feels like he’s just enough. Armitage drops his gaze, moving to open his door, but you stop him, taking hold of his arm again.

“Armitage?” you say, and time has stopped, his heart has stopped, the entire _galaxy_ has stopped as he waits to hear what you’ll say next.

“I’m glad I won’t be alone, when we go,” you say, “and, I’m glad that it’s you.”


	12. Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People seem to depict hux as sexually dominant and while i think he’d want to be i just dont think he would know how well enough to take control so please can i request reader teaching hux how to kiss and maybe also giving him the first loving hug he’s ever had?
> 
> I 100% agree with you on this, thank you for sending in this request! (Also I left out the hugging part because that is something I’m writing about in another request!)
> 
> Requests are open ✨
> 
> Armitage Hux x Reader
> 
> AN: I mentioned that I was working on an earlier request, a second part to the Hux x Reader on Arkanis, and I am almost finished with that, but it got really sad towards the end and I needed to work on something else. That’s when this happened. I promise I haven’t forgotten about the other one; it will be out any day now 🥰
> 
> Warnings: This is kind of horny but it’s not NSFW, so . . . ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ also, language.

Every nerve in his body is screaming for him to leave _right now,_ but he’s glued in place on the edge of your room, watching as you move around it so casually. This is so unlike him. He’d never believed himself capable of doing something like this. How had he ended up here?

Canto Bight had to be one of General Hux’s least favorite places. The whole planet was gaudy in the extreme, and the casino was the gaudiest spot of them all, full of drunkards and fools all laughing and screaming as they threw their credits away. Ridiculous. However, business was business, and that meant he occasionally had to venture away from the discipline of the _Finalizer_ to meet with an informant or businessman on their terms. He had been at the casino—waiting with some reluctance for one of those meetings—when he stepped out onto the balcony for a cigarette, hoping to calm his frayed nerves and get away from all the noise. 

He had only been alone a few moments before you had joined him, greeting him with a simple nod and then finding a place to lean against the balcony, a little ways away, placing a cigarette between your own lips. He had watched out of the corner of his eye as you searched through your bag, rustling through the contents of the tiny purse without any luck.

“Damn,” you said to yourself, before turning to address him, “do you have a lighter I could borrow?” That was when the trouble had started. 

He walks through the interaction now as he waits for you to finish whatever it is you’re doing, moment by moment, trying to figure out exactly when he had agreed to this, but he can’t seem to remember that part. All he can remember is the way your eyes grazed over his figure as he leaned in to light your cigarette for you and the secret in your smile as you took your first drag.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” you said, casually sliding closer, “business or pleasure?”

“Business,” he had replied curtly, trying to ignore the way his throat caught when you said the word _pleasure_. “And yourself?”

“Oh I work here.” The rest of your conversation was a blur now, and all he could really manage to recall after that was the feeling of your breath brushing up against his ear and the tug of your hand as you led him to one of the lifts.

“Make yourself at home,” you say to him now, but there’s little chance of that happening. You’re in front of the dresser, in the process of removing the many rings and bracelets that cover your hands and arms, plucking them off one by one and dropping them into a small bowl with a _plink, plink, plink_. Hux should _do_ something, like remove his suit jacket, or his tie, but he can’t. He’s having a hard enough time breathing, as it is.

He observes the room instead, which is small, neat, and wholly impersonal. There’s a window on the far side of the room and light streams in through the gap in your curtains, throwing a yellow stripe over your neatly made bed. It’s just a regular hotel room. You couldn’t possibly live here. A new thought hits him, and he goes red.

“You said you worked here,” he ventures, looking everywhere in the room but you, “what do you do?” You pull off the last of your jewelry and drop it in the bowl, leaning on the dresser and looking at him with a small smirk.

“I’m a bartender,” you say, “you caught me at the end of my shift. Why? Did you think I was . . .” You trail off when you sense his embarrassment, but the smile doesn’t leave your face as you approach him, shrugging off your own jacket and tossing it onto the floor, leaving you in a black dress that leaves little to the imagination. Your nimble fingers begin working at the knot in his tie, and he swallows hard as you discard it in the same way.

“I’ve-” he begins as you pull at his jacket, stuttering despite himself, “I’ve, uh, never done anything like this before.” He _really_ should leave, before you start laughing at him. He feels ridiculous, no, _worse_. He feels inadequate. Weak. It’s only a matter of time before you recognize the mistake you made in bringing him here and force him out the door, off to find someone who knows what they’re doing.

“I’ve heard that before,” you laugh, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him closer, and he can feel you against _all_ of him, the silky material of your dress whispering as it rubs against his own clothing. His arms stay firmly attached to his sides, his hands in fists, and he curses under his breath, looking up at the ceiling to avoid seeing all of _this_. 

“No,” he says, his voice shaking, “I mean I’ve never done _anything_ like this before.” You pull away from him and the playful smile is gone; instead, you study him with a gaze that’s much too sharp to be at home on a face as beautiful as yours. 

“Oh?” you say at first, skeptically, like you think he’s lying, and then when he makes no response, your eyes widen in surprise. “O _h_.” Hux thinks about grabbing his coat and tie off of the floor and running out the door, leaving the planet. He’d forget about the meeting. He’d forget about all of this, hopefully, with enough time. He’s about to do it, too, when you trace your hand down from his shoulder, resting it at the top of his collar, your thumb just barely grazing the hollow of his throat.

“I could teach you,” you say, looking up through your lashes, “if you wanted.” He wants it. He wants it _very_ much. Even though he should know better, he nods, letting you take his hand again and lead him to sit on the edge of the bed. His heart is beating wildly as he watches you adjust yourself into a comfortable position, sitting with one leg propped on the bed, facing him. He’s a grown adult, not some damn adolescent, but the sight of your legs, bare underneath the hem of your skirt, is about to send him into cardiac arrest. He needs to get a hold of himself, and fast.

“First things first, _you_ need to relax,” you say, and you bring both hands down on his shoulders. The contact is less charged, more casual than before, and you shake him, just a little, trying to get him to loosen the tension he’s holding in his back. You lean in, a very slight amount, and look him in the eyes, breathing rhythmically, and he follows your lead, his thumping heart rate slowing to a much safer level.

“Better?” you ask, and he nods again. You take it as an invitation to move closer, sliding across the mattress, only stopping once one of your knees brushes against his. The pounding of his heart returns, but it’s more manageable this time, and he doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out. An improvement.

You stay here for a moment, allowing him to adjust to the novelty of it all. “Just let me know when you’re ready for the next step,” you say with a laugh, and he’s glad for it—that you’re handling this whole situation with humor, even if he can’t.

“Alright,” he says, and you remove one of your hands from his shoulder, taking him by the arm and guiding his hand to your waist, letting it rest there, on the curve of your hip. When you know that he’s not going to pull away, you bring your hand back, this time holding his jaw, your fingers smooth and warm against his skin.

“Look at you, doing so well,” you whisper, and—even if it’s undeserved—the praise goes straight to his head. His vision blurs for a moment before he can focus on you once again, memorizing your face in the glow of the window. He still doesn’t understand how someone like _you_ —someone with those eyes, someone with a mouth like that, would want to kiss someone like him, but he’s not going to ruin it now. Not when he’s this close.

You brush your thumb over his mouth, pulling his lips apart just slightly, before your hand moves to the back of his neck. “Okay, remember: the whole point of this is to feel good, so if you _don’t_ feel good, let me know, and we can stop.” He nods his head one last time, and you close the gap, pressing your mouth to his.

 _Good_ is an understatement. _Incredible_ is an understatement. Actually, Hux is convinced that there aren’t words in any language to describe exactly how it feels to kiss you, but he tries anyways. It’s electric. Breathtaking. Sacred. You pull him closer, your other hand reaching up to the back of his neck, and he moves into you, pressing his mouth more firmly against yours, your lips parting with a small sigh.

“That was good,” you say when you pull away, and he can hear that you’re slightly breathless, “really good.” You lean back slightly, so that you can look him in the eyes again. “Do you want to keep going?”

“Yes.” He kisses you again before he’s finished the word, following you as you lean back against the bed. His other hand finds your jaw, gripping it tightly as you move beneath him, and you brace yourself against him, your hand moving to his waist, holding on to him at his ribcage.

 _Thin as a slip of paper_. The words pass through his mind and he immediately pulls away. Hux can’t think of a worse time for his father’s voice to come back to haunt him, and he clenches his fists, his nails digging crescent shapes into the palms of his hands as he tries to banish it from his mind.

“Everything okay?” you sit up on the bed, leaning on one arm. You look like a goddess, like sex personified, with your wild hair and swollen lips. He can’t believe he did that. He can’t believe that you _let_ him do that.

“I just . . .” how could he explain himself? You seem to understand, even if he can’t put it into words, watching him with careful eyes as you sit up and slide one leg over both of his, straddling his lap. He swallows hard, trying to keep his eyes on your face, and not on the hem of your dress, which is stretching taught between your legs. 

“What are you doing?” His hands find your waist again, holding you in place because now that you’re here, he doesn’t want you to leave.

“I just wanted to get a better look at you,” you whisper, brushing your hand over his hair tenderly, and the feeling makes him shiver. No one’s ever been this gentle with him before. Your eyes comb over his face, and he closes his eyes when he feels you lean in, peppering faint kisses over his nose, his eyelids, his cheeks. 

When you return to his mouth, he’s too stunned to react. This is better than he ever imagined. He’s not sure how he’ll live without it, and he wishes he could stay like this forever. Somewhere he feels wanted. Somewhere he feels safe. 

A faint beeping sounds off, distracting him, and he pulls away from you to check the time.

“I should go,” he says, gently nudging you off of him so that he can stand, “I have a meeting.” He thinks that maybe he should stay, as he watches you flop back onto the bed. Damn his meeting, he’d _really_ like to stay.

“The next time you’re back on Canto Bight,” you say, “come and find me. I want to see you again.”

“I’d like that,” he reaches for his things, pulling on his jacket and re-tying his tie, examining his reflection in the mirror.

You follow him to the doorway and he kisses you again, hard, passionate, and up against the wall. It’s better than the first time, and it makes him feel brave. “My meeting might be over in a little less than an hour,” he says tentatively, “I could—if you wanted, that is—I could come back tonight?” You kiss him again, as he pulls the door open behind him. He takes that as a yes.


	13. His Pilot Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That request for Hux on Arkanis was so bittersweet 😞 It was amazing as always and I really felt for him but poor Hux... I just want to hug him... 😔 Could we please get a part 2? Maybe where the reader goes to ask him later if he's alright? I just want to see a happier Hux getting some hugs cause he might not ever have had them before 😭 What would his reaction even be to just being held?
> 
> Yes! I think chapter five is the first part of this one?
> 
> Requests are open ✨ (but I’ll probably be closing them again soon 👀)
> 
> Armitage Hux x Reader
> 
> Warnings: Language and angst. 

Maybe this is a bad idea, but that’s never really stopped you before. General Hux had given you the rest of the day off when you returned to the _Finalizer_ after your trip to Arkanis, but you hadn’t been able to enjoy the free time. Your mind was troubled, and your thoughts kept traveling back to the kitchen in Day’s estate, like you could still feel the warmth of the fire on your skin, and hear the general's labored breathing.

He wasn’t alright. You know that, and you think—even though you don’t have any proof of it— that you could help him feel better. There's one problem, though. You don't know where he is.

You wander the halls of the ship aimlessly, hoping you might run into him. It makes you feel small, childish. Just more proof that you don't know what you're doing. Officers and troopers bustle through the hallways with purpose, and you focus on not getting caught up in the rush.

"Hey," you grab onto a passing officer, turning him to face you. He looks at you, affronted, but he stops long enough for you to ask your question. "I'm looking for the general?" He rolls his eyes and turns to share an aggravated look with the officer he had been walking with. 

"The general is very busy; he doesn’t keep all of us updated on his location. Try checking his office," he says, turning to leave, but you stop him again.

"Um, where is his office?" He frowns before pointing you in the direction of the bridge, and then they both walk away before you can ask any more questions. You head in the direction he indicated, trying not to look so out of place.

The bridge is busy, busier than the corridor, and you look for any sign of the general—a flash of red hair, or the back of his greatcoat. The sooner you can find him the better, but a trooper stops you before you enter the main area of the bridge.

"You need authorization to pass beyond this point." Shit, this was not something you had planned for. You think for a moment that it might just be better to go back to your quarters, until the memory of the general's hand in yours brings back your determination. You were not going to give up that easily.

"I need to see the general," you say, trying to look like you actually had good reason to be there.

"He’s in a meeting," the trooper says with a snort. “No one _sees_ the general.” 

Okay, now you really should leave. It was stupid to try and do this—whatever it was—while he was working anyways, and now you've made a fool of yourself. You nod and turn to go back the way you came, but your path is blocked when you run directly into something. Or someone.

"There you are," _Of course_ it's the general. He’s looking tall and intimidating, as always, and the trooper behind you snaps to attention, bringing you out of your daze. "Clear my schedule," General Hux says, and it takes you a moment to realize he's not talking to you.

"Yes, general," there’s another officer behind him—an assistant of some kind. All of this is so different from what you're used to, and you're feeling off-balanced, out of your element. If only you could have had this conversation on a ship. You were much more sure of yourself when you were sitting in the pilot's seat.

"This way," he walks past the trooper and you follow him to a long hallway off the bridge before entering his office. You expected the general to be neat, but this is next level, and you can’t help but raise your eyebrows in surprise as you take it all in. His office is spotless— _more_ than spotless; it’s practically empty. The only signs that the space is being used are a cup of caff on the desk, and his greatcoat hanging up on the wall beside the door. Just being there makes you sad, and you wish there was a viewport or something, _anything_ to make it feel less confining. 

"I'm glad you're here," he begins, sitting at his desk and starting up his data pad, "I know I told you that you'd be excused from the rest of your work today, but we do need to get started on the process for your promotion as quickly as possible."

"General, I'm not—wait. Did you just say promotion?" The two of you are clearly not on the same wavelength, but you dismiss that for a moment. He really _had_ meant it when he said you would be his pilot. A warm fluttering feeling starts up in your stomach, and you have to remind yourself that you’re here for _him_ , not for you. 

"Yes, promotion. Now—as my pilot—you'll need to work with your supervisor to adjust your schedule. Most of the off-base meetings that I attend are planned well in advance but I'll occasionally need to take last-minute excursions and you'll have to be available for that. As I explained in my message-"

"Sir," you couldn’t let him go on like this. If he kept talking you'd never get a chance to explain why you really came. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I never got your message. My data pad is still in my quarters. I came looking for you because. . . because I wanted to make sure that you were alright."

General Hux stares you down with impenetrable eyes, and you try to keep from fidgeting. If he took this poorly, you could kiss that promotion goodbye. Probably kiss your job goodbye, too. He sits silently—so still that you're not even sure if he's breathing—and you wait for any hint of how angry he might be at this breach of his personal boundaries. He's not giving you anything, though, and the seconds tick on like hours. It's too bad that the general is not a betting man, because he has the best damn sabacc face you've ever seen.

"Oh." It's the only reply he makes, and it answers exactly none of your questions. His brow furrows again, like it did on Arkanis, a ghost of that former sadness that doesn’t belong anywhere on a First Order ship, not to mention in an office like this. 

"I should probably go," you say as you stand from your chair, walking towards the door. In hindsight, this _really_ had been a bad idea, and that should have stopped you. 

“Wait, please,” and you do, of course. You would sit here and listen to him berate you for your lack of decorum, because, even if he’s upset, at least you get to be around him. You cringe at your pathetic behavior, but you turn back, waiting to see what his next words might be. He still doesn’t speak—his eyes displaying an emotion you don’t recognize—and he stands from his desk, facing away from you, his hands resting behind his back. It’s not an _angry_ action, and you move closer, waiting. 

“I’m not used to anyone showing concern for me,” he says, and he avoids meeting your eyes, his hands flexing into fists, like he wants to run and has to hold himself in place. Gods, what had happened to this man? It’s not the first time you’ve been forced to ponder that question, and it makes you angry—your desire to help him filling up the space he leaves empty when he drops the mask of authority.

You move around the desk slowly, deliberately, so that he can understand your intentions, and you watch for any sign of discomfort before you rest a hand gently on his shoulder. He tenses, but doesn’t pull away, and you keep your touch feather-light, staring at the wall as you speak. 

“There’s a heavy weight on your shoulders, general. You shouldn’t be expected to carry it alone.” You can see his head dip down out of the corner of your eye, the only display of weakness he’s willing to show, and you’re struck with an uncomfortable realization. No one else on the ship has seen him this way. None of the others would think him capable of this. The sheer loneliness of it punches you in the chest.

You don’t have to ask to know that General Hux has complicated feelings about personal contact, but you’re not sure how to offer it to him when the meaning behind it feels too big for words. So you’re careful, _very_ careful—to move slowly, to watch him as you lean in—reaching up to wrap one arm around the back of his neck, and then the other, pulling his face into your shoulder. He watches you right back, but he lets you embrace him, and he shakes in your arms, trembling at the contact.

Maybe you stay like this for hours, maybe less. Any indication of the passage of time is inconsequential in a space like this, and you have to base your estimation off of other signals, like the burn in your arms as you cling to him, or the rhythmic tensing and relaxing of his shoulders.

Time doesn’t matter now, anyways. The burning tears you feel soaking into the shoulder of your uniform matter. The tempo of his breathing matters. The feeling of his arms wrapping around your waist matters, reluctant in the extreme at first, but _there_. It _matters_ that he doesn’t pull away.

After some time, he clears his throat and you relax your grip, pulling away and turning back to face the wall. You don’t think he’ll want you to see the evidence of his pain, or his tears, and so you don’t look. He assumes the same position, and you sit silently for a moment, unsure where to go from here.

“Um, is there anything else you needed, General?” you ask, wincing at the formality of your tone. You’re existing in some kind of strange limbo, and while you’re sure it’s for the best, you know that it will take some time for you to adjust.

“No,” he says, and his voice is clear and even, like none of it had happened, “you’re dismissed.” You nod once, and make your way back to the door, quietly, like you’re trying not to disturb him.

“Thank you,” the words sound unwieldy coming from his mouth, like he’s not used to saying them, but they’re warm and soft, too, and it fills you up.

“Of course, sir” you respond, the smile on your face changing the way your own words sound, “I’m always happy to help.” 

You walk out of his office and back through the bridge, standing a little taller. You _were_ happy to help. And now that you were the general’s _personal_ pilot, you’d be able to offer more of your help, whenever he needed.


	14. His Pilot Pt. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I please request a Hux x reader where he gets jealous? With a happy ending?🤗
> 
> Absolutely! I decided to write this as a part three to my Hux x Pilot! Reader, which was requested as well, but if you would prefer something different (maybe from Hux’s perspective 👀) just let me know and I’ll start working on it. 
> 
> Here’s part one and part two if you missed them 🥰
> 
> Requests are open, but I'll be closing them down again, probably on Wednesday, the 29th so that I can work on what I have ✨
> 
> Armitage Hux x Pilot! Reader Pt. 3
> 
> Warnings: None! This is mostly fluff 💖

It’s difficult to land a ship with only one hand, but somehow you manage it. After all, you wouldn’t give up this contact with the general even if it meant risking a rougher landing. You find it sweet, and funny, the way he sometimes asks for affection now, resting his hand over the armrest, open and waiting, or the way he’ll stand at your side, hoping you’ll wrap your arms around him in a quick embrace before he disembarks whenever you return to the _Finalizer_. It’s easily the highlight of your new promotion, and you’re willing to work around any disadvantages it may cause.

“You’ll wait for me here?” he asks as you touch down, dropping your hand and flexing his fingers, still getting used to the feeling.

“I thought I would come inside with you again?” you say, narrowing your eyes suspiciously, the expression tempered by the smile that lives on your face when you get to be around him.

“I just thought,” he begins, adjusting his gloves, his coat, avoiding your gaze, “that you might not want to see Day, again. He can be . . .” he doesn’t finish his sentence, but looks at you meaningfully, and your heart flutters in your chest.

“Day is harmless, General,” you respond with a laugh, and then—because you want to tease him—you lean in just a little, batting your eyes, “are you really going to leave me out here all by myself?”

“I suppose not,” he says, turning away again to hide the rosiness in his cheeks. Gods, you love having this kind of effect on him. You wish you could watch him blush all the time.

It’s not raining on Arkanis this time, but the clouds are black and heavy in the sky, and the distant rumble of thunder tells you that a downpour is not far off. You follow the general’s quick footsteps as he walks towards Day’s estate, wrapping your arms around yourself in an attempt to block the biting and frigid wind. Even though it’s a short walk, you’ve already lost the feeling in your fingers and by the time Day opens the door, you’re afraid they’re on the verge of falling off. Day smiles widely when he sees you both, stepping out of the doorway to let both you in, shutting the door behind you on the howling wind outside. The last time you visited Day’s estate it had been cold and empty, but it’s the exact opposite now. Scores of people wander through the foyer, and you can see more of them in every part of the house. It’s a strange crowd he’s gathered; all kinds of humans and alien species, laughing and mingling in small groups. A few have turned to see the newcomers, and you duck your head down, shying away from the attention.

“I can’t believe my luck,” Day says, spinning you around to face him, holding you by the shoulders, “the love of my life has returned to me at last! Hello again, general, how are you?” He turns briefly to acknowledge Hux before returning his full attention to you, taking your hands in his and holding them close, and you can’t help but smile. You r _eally_ do like Day, even if he is a bit much, but you can see the general glowering over his shoulder, and you press your lips together tightly to hide your smile. 

“My dear you are practically an icicle! We’ll need to get you warmed up right away,” he presses a light kiss to your fingers before rubbing his hands back and forth over your own, trying to get the blood flowing again.

“Day,” the general says, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Day isn’t deterred—if he even notices it at all—wrapping one arm around your shoulder to share his own warmth, which reaches your freezing skin even through your uniform, “I’d like to get this meeting over with as quickly as possible. And in _private_.” He flashes a glance in your direction, and you know he really means _without you_. You’re surprised to see him so bothered; it’s not like you had any interest in Day.

“Don’t be ridiculous, general. I’m not about to let you go back out in that.” Day gestures to one of the windows and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’d planned it; a loud crack of thunder echoes through the room, and the light fixtures all shake, the sound followed by squeals from a few guests. Rain starts pouring down over the windows right after, and you already know that there’s no way you’ll be leaving the planet in a storm like that. You’d barely be able to get the ship off the ground. 

“See, general,” Day says with a smile, “you’ll simply have to stay the night, which means that we have plenty of time for a tour!” Day raises his hands above his head and cheers, and a few of the other guests join in, drowning out the sound of the general’s groan, his annoyance almost comical as he throws his head back and raises his hand to his temple, trying to stave off a growing headache, you’re sure.

The tour of the estate is certainly interesting, but you have a hard time focusing on all the information Day shares, his hand always managing to find your shoulder, or your waist, and you watch for Hux’s reaction. The general follows silently, his frown deepening as the night draws to a close. 

Your eyelids grow heavy, and a nice, warm feeling has settled over you when Day finally shows you to your room for the night. It’s large, but still cozy, a roaring fire waiting for you in the hearth. There’s clothes laid out for you on the bed, silky pajamas that feel like water between your fingers, and you leap onto the mattress, relishing the bounce. It’s leagues better than the bed you sleep on at the base. However frustrating Day might be, he certainly knows how to treat his guests.

You change out of your uniform and let your hair down, fluffing it around your shoulders and climbing back onto the bed. You’re about to tuck down into the covers when you hear a knock at the door, and you flinch. What if it’s Day? You had chalked up his flirting as a joke, mostly . . . but what if he was serious? The knocking continues, and you walk to the doorway, trying to come up with some excuse you could use if you found Day standing in the hallway.

You open the door, doing your best to look exhausted, but you snap out of it as soon as you see General Hux standing there. He’s still in his uniform, and looking kind of miserable, his pained, green eyes staring down at you and making your stomach do flips.

“General,” you say, folding your arms over your chest, feeling embarrassed. You’re in pajamas, and your hair is all over the place, while he looks so put-together, handsome. It’s entirely unfair. “Did you need something?” 

He doesn’t respond, and you think he might turn around and leave. His whole body is taught like a bow string, and he keeps his hands fisted at his sides. Which makes it all the more surprising when he leans down to kiss you.

He almost misses your mouth, his lips pressing gently just to the side of your own, but you’re more than happy to correct that little error, pulling him through the doorway by the collar and shutting the door behind him.

“I just-” he tries to say before you kiss him again, properly this time, “I couldn’t-” and then with a low growl that makes your knees shake, “ugh, _Day_.” It doesn’t matter to you that he can’t get the words out—you understand the meaning well enough. Honestly, even if he was trying to tell you something important—something vital—you don’t think you’d be able to pay attention. You’ve been waiting for this. 

He’s trying, you know he’s trying, but he’s stiff from inexperience. You have to do a little teaching, moving his hands from his sides and placing them at your waist, running a hand through his hair so he’ll relax his mouth long enough for you to slip your tongue over his bottom lip. 

“I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he breathes, pulling away from you and leaning his forehead against yours. You lean back, falling onto the bed, blissed out and grinning.

“I think I may have been waiting longer, General,” you say, running your teeth over your bottom lip. He’s shy again, tapping his hand against his thigh and staring down at the floor. 

“I’ll let you rest,” he says, turning to leave, but he watches over his shoulder—waiting to see if you’ll stop him—and you do, pressing one last kiss to his cheek before he leaves, watching the blush spread under the contact. It’s like spice in your bloodstream; you’ll never get enough of it.

“I’ll see you in the morning, General,” you whisper, running your lips faintly over the shell of his ear, just to feel him tremble. There’d be plenty of time for that later. Right now, you need to rest. It’s tough work being the general’s pilot, but somehow, you think you’ll manage.


	15. Graduation Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I second the request made where hux is being taught by the reader about affection and stuff like that, can I request another situation like that? I feel like we need more of this Hux.
> 
> Of course! Here’s a second part to the Hux x classmate! reader oneshot that I did a little while ago. (Here’s the first part if you missed it!)
> 
> Requests are closed ✨
> 
> Armitage Hux x Classmate! Reader Pt. 2
> 
> Warnings: None
> 
> AN: This idea came from a comment on the last chapter by Fuzztacular (if you're reading this I love you and I love your comments), and I was really excited to continue this story because I think it’s so cute! I already have a request for another part to this story, where Armitage and the reader arrive on the Finalizer, so we can look forward to that in the future!

_It’s not a date_ , Armitage reminds himself _again_ , but he can’t stop from staring at you as you sit next to him on the floor, leaning in close to the holoprojector set up in front of you, scribbling notes into your data pad. _It’s not a date_ , something he had told his roommate multiple times as he tried to convince him to go somewhere else, just for a few hours, so that he could be alone with you. Technically, there are rules against you being here in his room, but nobody really follows them. Still, he’s never broken _any_ of the rules before, and it’s making him nervous, but you both needed to prepare for your departure, and you might as well do it together. And it’s not like you’re doing anything inappropriate. Because it’s _not_ a date. Even if he’d like it to be. 

“So, the Cadet’s Ball is tomorrow night,” you say, just loud enough for him to hear over the sound of the rain pouring outside, even though there’s no reason to be quiet, your eyes catching the light of the holo as you look up at him, “are you going with someone?” 

“I, ah, wasn’t planning on it.” He barely wanted to go to the party at all; asking someone to go with him had been out of the question. “Are you?” Dread fills him, and he can see it already: you and your date, spinning around the dance floor lost in each other's eyes while he sits miserably against the wall, waiting for the night to be over.

“Deste and Bren both asked me, but I said no,” you respond, and he’s quietly relieved, avoiding your gaze so it won’t show. Armitage is especially glad that _he_ had not gathered up the courage to ask you himself; if you had turned him down, it would have shattered him. “I told Keel that I’d take her with me—as a friend—because sixth years can’t get in without a date.”

You fall silent again, turning your attention back to your notes, but Armitage is lost in thought. If you didn’t have a date for tomorrow night, what would stop him from asking you to dance? Besides, of course, the crippling embarrassment. It would be nice, though, and not out of the ordinary. You are friends, after all. Or at least, he _thinks_ you are. You’ve been spending more time together in the last week since the ranking, and sometimes he thinks, or maybe just feels, that you’re looking at him. Like he looks at you.

“You could come with us, if you wanted,” you add casually, interrupting his pondering. _It’s not a date, it’s not a date, it’s not a date_ ; Armitage repeats this mantra over and over, but the growing glow of hope in his chest is refusing to catch on. It’s not a date, but maybe it’s close enough. 

“Alright,” he says, keeping his eyes on his own data pad. He can’t look at you right now, not without thinking about what it would be like to kiss you. He plays it out though, in his head, pictures it with as much detail as he can create before the moment is lost. The soft press of your mouth on his, an errant sigh escaping your lips, the brush of his fingers against your cheek as he pulled you closer. His face grows hot, and he stops, trying to will away the blush he’s caused in himself.

“Really?” you grab his hand, resting on the floor in between you, and he’s forced to look up at you, to see the excitement in your expression, “you’ll come?” He nods, and you give him a smile so genuine it makes him nervous. Would he regret this?

The door flies open, and you pull away immediately, like you’re guilty of something much less innocent than holding his hand. It’s Keel, and she doesn’t bother to remove her jacket or dry off before she bursts through the door.

“It’s here!” she squeals, throwing her arms out wide flinging droplets of water over everything, “your dress is here, and mine too! We _have_ to go try them on!” she stops her shouting long enough to flash a smile in his direction, “Hi, Armitage.” She says it like a joke, lacing her words with a peculiar meaning, and Armitage frowns to himself, trying to puzzle it out.

“How did you even know I was here?” you ask, packing up your things before throwing an apologetic glance in his direction. He’s sorry for the interruption too, but probably not for the same reasons. 

“Oh, I bumped into Dariern near the mess hall and asked him if he had seen you anywhere,” Keel says, and Armitage rolls his eyes. Even though she’s a few years younger, lots of the other boys his age have a soft spot for Keel because she’s so pretty, and his roommate is obviously not an exception. Armitage wants to kick himself; he could have planned for this, he could have had at least little more time alone with you. 

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” you ask as you shrug on your jacket, turning to face him. Armitage nods, and you glance down at the floor, a little shy, like you’re waiting for something else, when Keel clears her throat loudly, waving you out the door. You let out a sigh before following her back out into the rain. Armitage watches through the doorway as you run towards your own barracks, shrinking to a speck and disappearing from view. It’s been less than a minute, but he already feels the anticipation bubbling up in his stomach. He can’t wait to see you again. 

After the party, the fabric of your dress rustles against the ground as he walks you back to your quarters. It’s not raining, for once, and the sky is miraculously clear, the moon streaming down over the grounds, painting shapes in the mist hovering around your feet. There’s a chill in the air and you shiver, running your hands over your bare arms to fight off the cold. Armitage hesitates for a moment, before shrugging his suit jacket off and placing it lightly on your shoulders. You smile gratefully before dropping your gaze back to the ground, watching your dress flare around your feet as you walk.

He had been so worried earlier; worried that you wouldn’t dance with him, worried that you _would_ dance with him, worried that you’d leave him by himself—but all his fears feel far away now, and had been completely unfounded. You spent most of the night together, just the two of you, since Keel had left fairly early in the evening, apparently feeling ill. It’s just the two of you on the long trek back to your barracks, but the night air makes everything feel stranger, more intense, like you’re the only two people alive.

“Did you have a good time?” you ask, glancing up at him through darkened lashes. You’re ethereal in the moonlight, and for a moment, Armitage feels like he might be hallucinating, not just the way you look, but the way you’re looking at _him_.

“Yes,” he says, and your arm brushes up against his, the movement a little too slow to be casual. Suddenly, he’s anxious again, although he’s not sure why. He’s just walking you back to your rooms. As friends. Because this is _not_ a date.

“Me too,” you say, quietly, your eyes wandering, and you’re close enough that you brush up against him again. Breathing isn’t easy anymore and he wonders if he should try to ignore the contact. He can see your barracks in the distance, but they’re far off and you’re walking slowly, like you have all the time in the galaxy.

“Armitage,” you say, an urgency laced into your voice, and you reach out to stop him, gripping his arm in your fingers, cool even through the fabric of his sleeve. Time stops with you. It’s a wild thought—an atypically insane thought—but it strikes him in the chest: you control the universe. All of this was made for you. The moonlight created to fall on your skin, the air for you to breathe, and him, too. He just doesn’t know his purpose yet.

He shakes his head just slightly, clearing away the irrationality, and waits on bated breath to hear you speak. Your expressions flicker; between confidence and doubt, confusion and surety. Ultimately, you bite back the words that he could see hovering on the tip of your tongue, and smile, embarrassed. 

“Sorry, it’s nothing,” you say, and he’s desperate to know, but that desperation is tempered a little when you wrap your arm around his own. He glances down at you, questioning, curious, and you give him a bashful smile, before explaining, “sorry, it’s just cold.”

Armitage can’t feel any chill now, focused on an entirely different feeling. The way your fingers grip at his bicep, the press of your torso against his arm, and it sets him on fire. He’ll never be cold again.

The rest of the walk feels like forever and somehow it still isn’t long enough. You walk in silence, but it’s comfortable. Arkanis has come alive with the sounds of nature that are normally covered up by the pounding rain, and he takes the time to appreciate the noise of living things. There won’t be any of that on the _Finalizer_. When you finally arrive at your doorstep, he’s feeling peaceful again, comfortable in your presence in a way that he doesn’t feel around anyone else he knows. 

“Thanks for walking me back,” you say, pulling his jacket from your shoulders and handing it back to him. You make no move to open the door, brushing your hands over your skirt and swaying a little on your feet.

“Of course.” You had asked him to, after all, and he’d leapt at the opportunity to spend more time with you. He knows he should say good night, but he’s not sure how. How does one say goodbye to a friend at the end of a night like this one? You run your tongue over the edge of your lips, and Armitage shudders. He knows how he’d _like_ to say good night, but he wouldn’t dare, not when it could ruin everything. He’s been standing here for too long. He needs to leave, or soon you’ll realize that he’s no good, all awkward and embarrassing and desperate.

“Well, good night,” he says, “sleep well.” He turns to leave, ready to head back to his own rooms, when he feels your hand on his shoulder, your grasp firm and demanding as you turn him back to face you.

“Wait,” you say, and then you move closer, his whole body alight with the feeling of being near you. He anticipates where he’ll feel it next, drunk on the tension, and you move slowly, like you’re submerged in liquid moonlight. He can feel his every nerve come alive as you approach him—like they were made for you too— made to feel the soft hesitation before you press your lips to his cheek.

“Good night,” you whisper the words, your breath cool against the fire alive and blazing just beneath the surface of his skin. He stays, watches you walk through your door and disappear from sight. His hand moves to his cheek, and he tries with little success to hold the feeling of your mouth on him in place. He doesn’t want to forget how good you make him feel.

He walks back to his quarters, his jacket fisted in both of his hands and his body buzzing with relentless energy. He hardly breathes the whole way, his mind still outside of your quarters, still living in the moment where you had kissed him. It’s not until much later—after he’s readied for bed, on the verge of sleep—when the realization smacks into him, like a punch to the stomach. Had that been a date?


	16. This Moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi please can i request hux x reader where they’re in a relationship and reader insists they be the big spoon even though hux isnt much of a cuddler and he lets them and the feeling of being held has him nervous at first but then he just starts to cry because he’s so starved of touch and physical affection
> 
> Such a cute idea, anon! Here’s this for you, hope you like it 😊
> 
> Requests are closed ✨
> 
> Armitage Hux x Reader
> 
> Warnings: Kind of angsty. Reader is on painkillers after a traumatic injury!

The message lights up the screen of his data pad, illuminating his quarters, and he reaches for it immediately, relief coursing through his veins when he sees your name. The light of the screen is hell on his tired eyes, but it’s nothing compared to the hell he’s lived through for the past few days. Before he can even finish reading the message, he’s out the door and on the way to your quarters as soon as he’s on his feet, moving quickly through the halls of the _Finalizer_ on a path he knows so intimately he could walk it blindfolded. 

“Hello,” you say when he enters, and he finds you in the low light, resting on your bed, propped up on a few pillows. Your speech is slurred, and your eyelids droop, like it takes considerable effort to keep them open. He flinches when he sees the bandage, your entire upper half wrapped in linen, covering what he knows to be an almost-fatal wound. He approaches you timidly, and you smile, reaching for him like a child, your hands opening and closing with insistence. They must have given you something for the pain, and it seems like they gave you _a lot_ of it. 

“C’mere,” you say, and he obliges you, moving to kneel at the side of your bed, getting a better look. You look right back, through glazed-over eyes, reaching out to stroke his cheek with your thumb. He turns his attention to your torso, running a gentle finger over the layers of bandages covering your side, and a lump forms in his throat. 

“Are you in any pain?” he asks, trying to speak through the emotion, and you shake your head enthusiastically, your hair fanning around your face.

“Nope, don’t feel anything,” you say, and then you giggle, but Hux can’t find any humor in the situation. You pull him towards you, grabbing at his arms. Even inebriated and injured, you’re surprisingly strong, and he lurches forward, his fall cushioned by the edge of the bed.

“I should go,” he says gently, moving out of your grasp, “you need to rest.” You drop your hands down and furrow your brow in an uncharacteristic pout.

“Stay‘th me,” you say, anger turning into sadness rather quickly as the drugs amplify your emotions, tears trailing down your cheeks, “please stay. Don’t wanna be alone.” Hux can understand that. After days without a word, he doesn’t want you out of his sight. It’s mostly selfish, but he nods, and you pat the space next to you on the mattress, grinning through the tears.

He joins you on the bed, even though he’s still in his uniform, but you don’t seem to notice, lunging for him sloppily, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, and his heart jumps in his chest. He’s not used to you being this . . . affectionate, at least not in this way. So open, uninhibited. Up until this point, everything had been careful and calculated, almost polite. He’d never wanted to push you too far. He needed to go slow.

“Y’ look very tired, General,” you whisper, pressing your face onto his cheek, your warm breath tickling his skin before you lean back to study him with soft eyes, “sleep, now. I’ll sleep and you’ll sleep. Sleep together.” Your eyes fall closed, as if to demonstrate your meaning, and he nods, laying back to rest on your mattress, feeling stiff and uncomfortable. This isn’t something that has happened before, and it’s probably foolish for him to stay in your quarters overnight—people might talk—but he can’t bring himself to leave. The thought of spending any more time alone is unbearable. He wants to be here with you, even if you’re not entirely yourself right now.

You snuggle up close to him, satisfied now that he’s done as you asked, wrapping an arm around his torso and pulling yourself tight into his chest. He sucks in a shaky breath, adjusting to the contact, and tries to think about where to rest his hands. If this were any other time, he might place one at your waist, but the sight of the bandage stops him and he settles one hand in your hair instead, brushing a few errant strands away from your face.

“Mmmmm, yes!” you whisper emphatically, and he bites back a smile at your drug-induced enthusiasm. Your breathing grows slow and even, and Hux tries to sleep, but the ability to unwind evades him. He’s feeling an acute sense of claustrophobia, like the walls of your room are closing in, the pressure of your body heavy on his. It’s a suffocating feeling that he knows intimately, one he’s tried to evade on countless occasions, but stronger this time, and he’s met by it with full force. It’s difficult for him to admit it, even just to himself, but the contact frightens him—every time you brush your hands through his hair or press a kiss to his temple, he’s reminded of past pains, of touches designed to break him. And now he’s breaking in a different way, torn between the fear of touch and the need for it. The need for _your_ touch. 

He can’t stop looking at the bandage. Even when he closes his eyes, he sees it. How close had he come to losing you? How close had he come to never seeing you again, never experiencing the feeling of your cheek pressing against him, or hearing the soft sighs of your sleep? 

The tightness moves deeper, into his lungs, and he works to breathe, focusing on the rise and fall of his own chest and not the movement of yours under the bandage. The truth is that a blaster shot isn’t the only thing that could take you from him. He’s always on the verge of losing you. Soon, you’ll realize that you can do better; he’s only delaying the inevitable. Hux turns to leave, gently trying to escape your grasp, but you won’t release him, your arm hugging tighter around his waist. 

“Nooooo,” you moan lowly, pulling him closer to you, until his back is pressed flush to the lines of your body, and one of your legs wraps over the top of his, your face pressing into his shoulder. Hux’s eyes flood with tears that he bites back, blinking them away. You hold him, like a lifeline, like you can’t stand the thought of being without him. He’s never been held before.

He stifles a gasp, biting into his fist with enough force to draw blood from his knuckles, the metallic sting snaking across his tongue. He wants this, he wants you so _badly,_ and his own weakness is keeping him from it. It’s pathetic. It’s pointless. He should go. Your face shifts against the fabric of his uniform as if you sense his distress, nestling in tighter before looking up at him with wide, round eyes, peering at him over his arm. 

“Why’re you crying?” you ask, and Hux drops his hand from his mouth to brush it over his cheek, surprised to feel warm tears he couldn’t blink away coating his hand. Your fingers find their place against his cheeks, your touch burning, before you lean in, kissing the tears from his skin. Your mumbled affections brush against the trails left behind by his tears, “I love you. Don’t cry. Love you, love you, love you.” Those are words he’s never heard before, and they punch him in the chest, spreading an ache through his whole body. 

“Do you mean that?” he grabs you by wrists, pulling away, turning to face you, and he’s struck silent for a moment. After an eternity of watching you from afar—dreaming and hoping and foolishly wishing for something like this—you’ve told him you love him, and you probably won’t even remember it.

“Mean what?” you ask, furrowing your brow as you try to think, try to lean in again to kiss him, but he keeps you where you are. He can feel the tears this time, tears that burn as they fall from his tired eyes and trace thin lines down his nose and cheeks.

“You said you loved me,” he repeats the words like a prayer, like a curse, “did you mean it?” You squint at him, trying to decipher his meaning like he’s speaking in another language. He should be letting you sleep. There’s no point in asking you anything right now, not when you’re like this. But he has to know. He has to hear you say it again.

“Mhmm,” you say once you understand, nodding rapidly, “ yes, yes, yes. I love you. Love you, Armitage,” you say it like it’s obvious, like things could never be any other way. His grip on your arms goes weak, and you fall into him again, pushing him back down to the bed. You rest your chin on his chest and look up at him, brushing the tears away from his face with delicate swipes. “No more crying, love,” you command with mock severity, “just sleeping.” 

You settle against his chest again, and he can feel you breathe, the rise and fall of it reverberating through his own body, and before he can repeat the words back to you, you’re asleep. Hux sits in silence. You love him. He doesn’t have to ask himself if he feels the same.

Slowly, he adjusts to the gentle press of your body on his, allowing himself to relax into the mattress. His hand brushes over your hair again, and he watches you, the soft breaths that escape your parted lips, the fluttering of your lashes against your cheeks. He loves you, too, loves you so much and he needs you to know it, but there will be time for that later. He’ll tell you he loves you, show you he loves you for the rest of his life, but he’ll start in the morning, when you’ll remember it. For now, he’ll focus on this, because he knows that he’ll always remember this moment.


	17. For Good Luck Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh goodie you're requests are open! First I just wanna say that I love you writing! You're so good!!! So if it's not to much trouble could you write something with Hux where the reader is just super anxious about something and he just helps? (I need some good ol comfort fluff ya feel lol) thank you ❤❤❤
> 
> Thank you so much 🥰 I have this for you, but if it isn’t what you had in mind just shoot me another request and I’ll get started on it ASAP!
> 
> This is a second part to my Hux x Nurse! Reader that I did a little while ago. (here’s the first part if you are interested)
> 
> Requests are closed ✨
> 
> Armitage Hux x Nurse! Reader pt. 2
> 
> Warnings: Language and some angst! It’s also a teeny bit horny …¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The general is gone—and whatever enchantment he had over you has gone with him—leaving you alone in the exam room, trying to process everything that had just happened. General Hux had kissed you. He’d asked you to go away with him, to go to the _Supremacy_ and work there instead, because he was going to be there, and he wanted you to be with him. And you wanted to be with him too, right? You float more than walk out of the exam room, leaning back over the desk where Tayan sits, your brow furrowed in confusion.

“Well, how’d it go?” Tayan asks without looking up from the screen of his datapad, “was it a tearful goodbye for the star-crossed lovers?” You know that whatever you tell him will make its way around the whole ship—passed between so many parted lips that the story would be unrecognizable if it ever made its way back to you—but you can’t worry about that right now; you need to tell _someone_.

“I’m being transferred to the _Supremacy_ ,” you say, but your voice sounds far-off, weightless, “the general requested it.” _Gods_ , it doesn’t even sound real to you, how would anybody else believe it? You have to think, hard—remember exactly what it felt like when the general pressed his lips to the bend in your wrist, when he held your face and asked you to go away with him. You have to make sure you hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing, and still, even as you recall the strength of his grip as he tasted your skin, you aren’t positive that any of it actually happened.

Tayan’s datapad makes a loud clattering noise when it hits the floor, and he slams his hands down on the desk in front of you, leaning close. The sound startles you out of your trance, and you look at him, his eyes bright and eager.

“Have you been fucking the general this whole time?” he whispers, but you know he’d like to shout it, his voice rich with equal parts glee and surprise. “In this very medbay? How could you keep something like that from me?”

“Tayan, you know as well as I do that most of his visits are over in ten minutes or less.” It’s not the conversation you should be having, but it helps ground you, bring you back to reality instead of focusing on all the things you didn’t know. Like the nature of this new relationship with the general. Or what it would be like on the _Supremacy_. Or what he expected of you once you got there.

“I never said that he was fucking you _well_ , and you’re not denying it,” Tayan raises his eyebrows at you, swatting you on the arm, and you shove him back.

“You’re really weird. You know that, right?” Insulting him will have to stand in for the words you can’t say, words like _good bye_ , and _I’ll miss you_. Words that would make you question if you should really be leaving at all. 

“So when do you go?” he asks, recognizing the change in your demeanor, and you know he feels the same, his eyes softening as he places one of his hands over yours. 

“Less than an hour, now. He said he had to go speak to a few people on the bridge and then we’d take a transport,” Shit, you’re not going to cry, not again, and you try to blink away the tears forming in your eyes. Tayan moves around the desk, pulling you in for a bone-crushing hug, and you let him, hugging him right back. A few tears slip down your cheeks, landing on the shoulder of his uniform and melting into the fabric. You _want_ to go, but you still need to mourn everything you’re about to lose.

“We’ll stay in touch,” he whispers, and you nod, wiping the tears away with the back of your hand.

“Okay, yes, that will be good,” you say, forcing a very unconvincing smile onto your face.

“And you’ll have to keep me up to date on _all_ the nitty gritty details of your amorous affair with the general,” he says, leaning back on the desk and throwing his hand to his forehead with dramatic flourish. The action is so ridiculous that you laugh, loudly, momentarily forgetting some of your worries.

“You’re an idiot, and I have to go,” you say, grabbing your bag from behind the desk. General Hux told you not to worry about any of your other belongings—apparently moving your things out of your quarters would be someone else’s job—which means that all you’ll have for the foreseeable future is the uniform you’re currently wearing and the items you brought with you to work: your datapad, a change of clothes, and your canteen. You try not to think about it too much.

You walk through the hallways of the Finalizer for the last time, as far as you know, hoping you’re moving in the right direction. You do eventually find the correct hangar, and he’s already waiting for you. The sight of him both settles your nerves and provokes them; his cool gaze reminds you of the feeling of leather as his hands gripped your face, the heat of his mouth on yours and the taste of blood. The memory makes you lightheaded, and you pull in a few deep breaths through your nose.

Your heart rate spikes, and your palms grow clammy. You’re about to board a transport with one of the most powerful people in the Order, on your way to the Supreme Leader’s flagship. And for what? Because of a kiss you shared with a man you’ve spoken all of twenty words to? It’s insane.

He doesn’t look at you when you stop, too busy talking to the pilot, but you feel other eyes on you, the hangar filling with the sound of hushed whispers that reach your ears even over the dull roar of the hangar. Your face grows warm. Hux and the pilot finish their conversation, and he boards the ship without acknowledging you at all.

Is this all you were going to get from him? An occasional kiss in the privacy of the med bay and then him pretending that you didn’t exist? You know that he probably doesn’t want to draw any more attention than he already has, but still. You need to know that this isn’t going to be a huge mistake. 

The transport is a small one, and you find a place to stand up against one of the walls, trying to make yourself as small as possible, folding your arms across your chest and bracing yourself for takeoff. The _Supremacy_ is not far off and the journey is short, but you might as well be lightyears away from the _Finalizer_ now, since you won’t be going back. The hangar is huge, much bigger than the one on the _Finalizer_ , and no one pays you or the general any mind after you disembark.

“I need to speak to the Supreme Leader.” Hux says, finally addressing you, but with his eyes elsewhere, “Can you find your way to the medbay? They’ll be expecting you.”

“No need to worry about me, General. I’m sure I’ll manage.” You don’t mean to sound so bitter, but you really can’t help it—everything about this is overwhelming in the extreme. And, as much as you don’t want to take your anger out on the General, you’re here because of him. He’s asking for a lot from you, and you’re not so sure if you can handle it.

He doesn’t respond—not verbally, at least—but he takes you by the arm, his grasp firm as he pulls you out of the hangar. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s certainly strange, and you draw confused looks out of every person that you pass. You’re not sure how far you’ve gone when he finally stops, each turn blurring into the next. The hallways look pretty much the same as the ones on the _Finalizer_ , but the layout is completely different. You already anticipate that finding your way around will be next to impossible. Just one more thing to worry about.

The room he takes you to is dark and empty, but the lights turn on after the door closes. After a moment, you realize that you’re in his quarters, and you’re anxious all over again. You’ve been alone with the general plenty, but never in a place quite this _private_. He leta go of your arm, his hand moving to the side of your face where it rests gently as he turns your eyes to meet his.

“What are you doing?” Even when you’re angry he still makes you breathless, your words quiet as they leave your lips. He moves closer, stopping your heart when he plants a gentle kiss at the juncture where your jaw meets your neck.

“Apologizing,” he whispers the word against your ear, and the feeling makes you _whimper_ , like some kind of idiot, like you’re putty in his hands. His apology is working; you’re having trouble remembering exactly why you were so upset before. You’re having trouble remembering anything. 

“I’m sure this is all very stressful for you,” he continues, one hand moving to your waist, the other to your hair, both pulling you flush against him, his body solid against yours.

“I just don’t know-” you begin, pausing for a moment as you focus on the mechanics of breathing, trying not to think about the things his mouth is doing to your neck, the marks he’s going to leave. If people here weren’t talking about you before, they certainly would be after this. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, or what you want from me, and I just don’t know if I can do _this_.”

The general leans away and you’re left colder by his absence, but he makes up for it by taking your face in his hands again, running his thumbs over your cheeks as he whispers, “I’m sorry, I never wanted to put this kind of pressure on you. Will you forgive me?” You nod into his hands, a single tear slipping down your face and into his glove. You’d never had guessed that he could be so gentle, so kind. It makes you feel foolish for doubting him.

“I must go see the Supreme Leader now, but I’ll be back. Will you wait for me here?” You nod again, and he presses or gentle kiss to the crown of your head. “I’m glad that you came with me,” he mumbles against your hairline, and you smile in spite of yourself.

You’re left alone in his quarters, your breathing steady and your heart rate calm. You still have questions—still have doubts—but they seem small now, in comparison to what you’ve gained. You get what you’ve always wanted, to be with him, and that makes you feel _very_ lucky.


	18. Sunshine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could you write a modern au, Armitage Hux x Reader oneshot in which Hux is a well respected CEO in the center of Manhattan and the reader is just a barista at a local coffee shop that’s right across from Hux’s building. On an off day Hux is forced to take the bus. He recognizes the reader because he’s gotten coffee from her shop before and decides to start a conversation. He ends up taking the bus more often just to see the reader and she ends up questioning him why. Sorry if that’s so specific.
> 
> This is definitely not too specific, and I’m OBSESSED with this concept! Thank you for this request. I have this for you, hope you like it!
> 
> This was partially inspired by @amadwomanrambles wonderful CEO! Hux headcanons. I also posted my own hcs earlier today about him, and I’m such a slut for this au I’ll probably post more!
> 
> Requests are closed ✨
> 
> CEO! Hux x Barista! Reader Modern AU
> 
> Warnings: Pretty much just language! Enjoy 😊

When the interviewer from Forbes Magazine asked Armitage Hux—CEO of First Order Enterprises and one of the youngest millionaires currently residing in New York City—what the secret to his success was, he had a ready response: strict adherence to an optimized routine. Unlike most of the nonsense he was required to prattle on about in those interviews, this was something that he actually believed. 

He started each day the same way: wake to an alarm at 5 AM, exercise, shower, breakfast and the news. After that he’d dress for work, check his email, and then wait for his driver to pick him up from his apartment and take him to the office building in Midtown. He’d arrive at work at 6:15 sharp, and he’d stay there until the sun set each evening. It was a good routine. A safe routine. And he wasn’t about to break it for just anything.

Today he didn’t have a choice. His driver called him at 5:30. She was sick. She could call someone else, but they’d be late. Hux told her not to bother; he’d find another way to work. He didn’t mention the queasiness that piqued in his stomach at the mention of another driver. They’d probably try to _talk_ to him, and he’d have to think of something to say. Hux could handle a boardroom, he could handle a press-conference, he could even handle a fundraiser with sufficient preparation. But one-on-one interaction? With a stranger? He avoided it as often as he could.

But then how to get to work? He wouldn’t take a cab, for the same reasons he didn’t want another driver, in addition to the fact that most were terribly dirty. He never took the subway if he could help it. Hux stares down at the streets below, watches as New York City begins to wake. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a bus stop, only a short distance from the front door of his building. It’s better than walking.

Hux finishes the rest of his morning routine, but there’s little pleasure in it now that he’s been forced to alter it, and his displeasure only deepens after he checks the bus schedule; he’s missed the first one, which means he’ll be late. At least he knows that his coffee won’t be waiting for him, since it’s a Wednesday.

Heat rises in his cheeks whenever Hux thinks about his favorite part of his morning routine. Every day but Wednesday, he gets to spend the last minutes before he walks into work at Pleasant Distraction Coffee, a little shop across the street from the FOE building, and every day but Wednesday, he starts his mornings with you—your smile, the brush of your fingers as you hand him his drink. You always have it ready for him when he walks in the door, and he thinks that you, too, have an appreciation for routine, for order. Not that he can say, for sure. He’s never _really_ talked to you, after all, but he believes that the gesture speaks volumes. 

The air is cool and brisk outside his apartment, and he arrives at the bus stop with five minutes to spare. The sun is just starting to rise, the rays of light reflecting off of the windows of his building, and he thinks that New York City looks better when it’s bathed in the golden glow of the morning. It’s almost pleasant enough to make him forget his earlier frustrations, and he’s starting to feel invigorated instead of annoyed, like the day is full of unexplored possibilities. Like maybe he should take the bus more often. He immediately regrets that thought when the bus actually pulls up, coughing a thick cloud of exhaust fumes in his face before it stops. He boards and pays, and then freezes in the middle of the aisle. It’s you.

“Find a seat,” the bus driver calls back loudly, and a few people glare at him as he sits down, but you don’t notice the commotion, mouthing along to the music playing in your headphones, oblivious to the world. You look different out of your uniform, but he thinks he’d know you anywhere and Hux falls into a seat, watching to make sure he’s right. 

No, it’s definitely you. Your expression betrays an intense level of focus as you lean in closer to the book you’re reading before you scribble in the margins and then flip to the next page. He never gets to see you like this: looking so awake, so alive. It’s always been hard for him to take his eyes off of you, but now …

He should talk to you. He should talk to you because if he doesn’t, and you see him, you would think that he had chosen to ignore you, and he didn’t want that. That is, if you recognized him at all. Would you recognize him? You saw him every morning, but it was always while you were working, and it wasn’t like your interactions with him were particularly unique. You probably handed hundreds of people their coffee everyday. But you did remember his order; that had to count for something. And he’d really like a chance to say more to you than just “good morning.”

The bus stops again, and Hux gathers the courage to move to the closest empty seat. Your eyes stay on your book, your pen resting on your bottom lip. Hux takes in a deep breath before tapping you on the shoulder, and to his horror, you jump, ripping your headphones from your ears and turning to face him.

“Holy shit, you _scared_ me—wait a second, I know you!” Your expression transforms from anger and surprise to one of recognition, and your face lights up when you give him a smile. It’s a genuine smile—not a customer-service smile, like he normally gets. A sunshine smile. Hux has to remind himself to breathe.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he says when he finally regains the ability to speak, “but I thought I recognized you and I wanted to say hello.” He trails off awkwardly; this was a terrible idea. He had nothing to say to you, but he had to admit that he liked being this close, liked being able to see the way your lashes brush against your cheeks when you look down, pausing the tinny music he can hear coming from your headphones.

“Well, hello,” you say, smiling again. Hux turns his gaze to the ceiling, begging his brain to come up with something to say. Luckily, you carry on the conversation for him, “I’ve never seen you on the bus before. Car trouble?”

“Something like that,” it’s not _technically_ a lie, and he isn’t exactly eager to get into the details of his morning. What would you think of him if you knew he had a personal chauffeur while you were forced to take the bus?

“Hmmm, that sucks. If you need a mechanic, I know a guy.” You pull a slip of paper out of the back cover of your book and nestle it between the pages, closing it and resting it in your lap. Hux takes this as a good sign—you want to keep talking to him.

“It’s being taken care of,” he says, and then, hoping to change the subject, “what’s your stop?” 

“Oh, I’m headed to NYU,” you say, nudging your backpack on the floor with the toe of your shoe.

“You’re a student?” He should have guessed, but the information surprises him. You seemed older than most of the students he sometimes saw running around campus when he went to give guest lectures in the business school every semester. 

“No, I just like going to the library on my days off,” you say in explanation, like you already knew what he was thinking, “It’s quiet there and my roommates are loud, so … ” The bus jolts to a stop again, and you’re almost thrown into him, until you brace yourself against his shoulder. Your hand lingers just for a moment before you move it back your lap once again, mumbling a quick apology. Hux changes his mind again, he should definitely take the bus more often.

“This is an early start for a day off,” he says, and you laugh.

“Yeah, it is. I guess all the time I spend serving coffee has kind of ruined my ability to sleep in,” you say, and then with some hesitation, “you work for First Order Enterprises, right?” 

“How did you know that?” God, he hopes you don’t read the tabloids. He’s only minor fodder for the parasites who write them—there are many bigger names in New York than his—but the articles aren’t exactly flattering, and he’d hate for you to have a negative opinion of him before he even had a chance to get to know you.

“Well, I do see you walk into the building every day,” you say in explanation, and he relaxes, safe for now. Maybe it’s a trick of the light as it floods through the greying bus window, but he thinks you might be blushing, and it’s thrilling. Talking to you is surprisingly easy, especially when he’s so often distracted by the quirk of your lips, the way your tongue sometimes peaks out of the corner of your mouth when you’re trying to think of something to say. Hux takes a chance to look out the window and, to his dismay, he can see the FOE building in the distance. His time with you is almost up.

“I think my stop is next,” he says, and your mouth folds into a small frown. He moves to stand, getting ready to disembark, but you stop him with a hand on his arm.

“Wait,” you say, and he hesitates, although he can tell by the streets passing by that the bus will be stopping any moment now, “I don’t know your name.” Hux winces. Of course he should tell you his name, he knows yours after all; you wear a name tag when you’re working and he had made a point to read it. You don’t release him, expectant.

“I go by Hux,” he says, finally giving in, and you squint your eyes at him in confusion.

“There’s _no way_ that’s your name,” you say, your fingers dancing over the sleeve of his suit jacket sending sparks up through his arm. It wakes him up better than caffeine ever has; he feels like he could run a marathon if you just kept touching him. 

“I go by my last name, actually,” he explains, and you raise your eyebrows, waiting for more, “my first name is … unique.”

“Well, now I have to know.” Your eyes light up and you smirk, tightening your grip as he feels the bus roll to a stop. He looks to the doors, waiting for them to open, but you tug on the hem of his sleeve to bring his attention back to you, “It’ll drive me crazy if you don’t tell me.” God, you’re pretty when you want something. Hux has a feeling that you don’t hear the word _no_ often, and you certainly won’t hear it from him. 

“It’s Armitage,” he finally concedes, and you throw your hands to your mouth, but they can’t keep the squeal from escaping. He gives you a pained look and you lower them, adopting an air of mock solemnity.

“That is unique,” you say, clearing your throat to cover up your giggle, “what does it mean?”

“Mean?” The bus finally stops, and he stands, waiting for the bus driver to open the doors.

“Come on, a name like that has to mean something.” Your finger runs over the skin of his wrist, and he has to lean close to hear you over the sound of the passengers getting on, a few of them shuffling irately past him to find seats. He should leave now, before the bus driver starts up again again, but not without giving you what you asked.

“It means,” he says quietly, “that my father was an asshole.”

You pause only for a moment, and then the sound of your laughter fills the whole bus, a hearty, full laugh that’s like gold in his veins. A few people glare at the two of you, but Hux doesn’t mind the attention. God, that’s a pretty sound. He’d like to wake up to a sound like that. Your hand falls from his arm, and he straightens, heading to the door, but he looks back before disembarking.

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, Armitage.” You leave him with one last smile as he steps down onto the street. He stays on the curb for a moment, watching as the bus turns the corner, disappearing from view. For the first time in a long time, Hux thinks he has a reason to break his routine.

It doesn’t take long for you to figure him out; certainly not as long as he’d like. It’s the third morning that he sees you waiting for him, a morning that’s overcast and cloudy, but you smile at him when he walks through the doors and it makes everything seem brighter. You move your bag from the seat next to you and put away your book as he joins you—a new routine in its own right. It’s nice to see you in the mornings when he gets his coffee, but he’s been looking forward to Wednesday mornings the most, likes that he can just be with you for a little while.

“So I met a friend of yours yesterday,” you say in greeting as he sits, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Hux doesn’t have many friends, and he had plenty of enemies who might try something devious. “Your driver—I think she said her name was Phasma? She came in for coffee after parking your car.” You’ve got a great poker face, but Hux thinks he can see the hint of a smile at the corners of your lips as you wait for an explanation. His face falls; he had hoped for a little more time to get to know you, and now he has to tell you the truth, even if it might drive you away.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he turns away from you, trying to hide his disappointment. Getting coffee in the morning would be much too awkward if this conversation did not go well.

“When were you going to tell me?” You speak seriously, but everything about you is tinged with an infectious sort of humor.

“I was actually hoping that I wouldn’t have to,” he responds, and you sit, waiting, staring him down with impenetrable eyes, “I just … wanted to get to know you.” You do smile then, a small, incredulous smile that makes his heart skip a beat. 

“Well, since we’re being honest, I have something that I should tell you,” you don’t look at him as you speak, instead you rummage around in your backpack, pulling out your book again and flipping through the pages. He braces himself, waiting for the worst. Were you about to tell him that you had a boyfriend? Or that you weren’t interested? He looks out the window; his stop is close, but not close enough if he has to deal with the mortification of your rejection.

“I wasn’t planning on going to the library today,” you begin, pulling a slip of paper out of the back cover of your book, “I just came because I knew you’d be here.” You finally meet his eyes, your expression shy, embarrassed. Hux can scarcely believe it.

“Are you saying …” he doesn’t dare finish his sentence, but waits as you reach over, tucking the slip of paper into his waiting hands. 

“Here,” you say, folding his fingers around it, and the slip crinkles against his fingers before he unfolds it, raising it to eye level so he can better read the numbers you’ve written.

“What’s this?” He knows what it is, obviously, but he has to make sure that you’re on the same page. He’d like to make sure he’s not dreaming.

“It’s my phone number. Call me sometime.” He can’t think of a single thing to say, not when it feels like rays of pure light are bursting out of his chest, but he tucks the little paper into his jacket pocket, staring at you like an idiot. You smile back, openly. Even as you’re smiling, he can’t wait for the next one; he’s never seen happiness so at home on someone’s face before.

The bus rolls to a stop, and he’s pulled out of his reverie, standing so that he can disembark. He pats his pocket to make sure that the little paper is tucked securely away before turning to face you, “I’ll call you, tonight if that’s alright?” and you nod in response, looking almost as eager as he feels. He’ll call you tonight, and he’ll see you tomorrow morning, and hopefully every day after that, because he never wants to go another day without seeing you smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a link to the hcs I wrote on tumblr: https://starlightsearches.tumblr.com/post/617849697571405824/okay-so-im-going-to-be-posting-a-modern-au
> 
> And here's a link to the hcs that inspired me from @amadwomanrambles: https://amadwomanrambles.tumblr.com/post/615611969811169280/honestly-im-going-to-ask-this-because-one-im


	19. Stay Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god yas I’ve been waiting for these to open I love you writing so much and was wondering if you could do a Armitage hux x reader based on the song quartet at the ballet from Anastasia or at least the quote “Someone holds her safe and warm,Someone rescues her from the storm” thank you so much 💘💛🧡💖💓💗❤️💜❤️💗💞💕🧡💛💘🧡💛🧡💖💓💜❤️
> 
> You are so sweet! I’m so glad you like the stuff I write; I’ve made this for you, hope you enjoy!! (I’ve never done a song prompt before! My initial concept for this was so sweet, and then … this happened instead. Hope you like it 🥺) 
> 
> Requests are closed ✨
> 
> Armitage Hux x Reader
> 
> AN: I’m pretty much incapable of writing an actual oneshot apparently, so maybe we’ll see a return to this story later (if there’s any interest of course 😉) 
> 
> Warnings: Kind of angsty. Canon-typical violence, threatens of violence against the reader, mild allusions to sexual assault, and language.

You’re running, running without thought—running without paying any mind to the burning in your lungs, your legs, your heart—because the second you stop, they’ll find you. The streets that you’ve learned so well are empty, and for a moment you’re overcome with a gripping panic, as if you’re being pursued by more than just the men you’ve cheated. It feels like you’re being chased by ghosts—ghosts of the people you’ve hurt, the lives you’ve ruined. The thought only makes you run faster. Your blaster is gone. There were three, maybe even four of them, if you counted right, if they didn’t have others in the shadows. You can’t fight them off, not on your own, so you’ll have to hide and pray that they won’t find you.

Commander Armitage Hux’s informant is late, and it’s freezing—little flakes of snow falling into the alley and dusting his hair, his shoulders. The blood is gone in his legs, and his fingers are stiff as he clenches them at his sides, the cold reaching through the leather of his gloves and digging its way straight to his bones. He’s been waiting for more than an hour, but he can’t return to the ship, not without something to show for all his efforts. He’ll wait a few minutes longer.

A shiver runs through his body, and he shoves his hands under his arms, watching the clouds of his breath dissipate in the night air, hoping to hold on to the little amount of body heat he has left. He tells himself that it will be worth it, to lose a few fingers. This intel could lead to big things for him—another promotion, a Star Destroyer under his command. A way out. No, he’ll wait as long as it takes. Even if it kills him.

His eyes flash to the mouth of the alley when he hears it—a scuffling sound, footsteps close by and he perks up, hoping his patience is about to be rewarded. He doesn’t have time to feel surprise when your shadowy figure appears, running full speed, crashing into his arms with urgency, with need.

“Please, help me,” there are tears in your eyes as you grasp at him, your hands moving desperately from his arms to his shoulders to the collar of his coat, pulling, grabbing, clutching at him. There’s only a sliver of light by which he can see you, and it cuts your face into fragments. Your eyes, your jaw, your nose, flashing in and out of view in the moonlight. Even in pieces, he finds you beautiful, and he can’t think of the words he has to say, words that would calm you. “Please, they’re going to kill me,” you sob the words, trembling against him, and Hux is overcome with a strange but not uncomfortable sensation. There’s something familiar about you. Something vital. He needs to protect you.

It’s not exactly what you were hoping for, but at least the stranger you’ve found at the end of the alley is a man of action. As soon as the words leave your mouth, he’s moved you into the space behind himself, shielding you from the entrance with one arm. It’s not a moment too soon, either. Your friends have arrived.

“There you are, sugar,” the voice echoes against the darkness, and they appear, stepping into the black of the alley one by one, all of them looming much larger than your would-be protector, completely blocking the exit. You can’t get a good look at him now, but you don’t think he’s much older than you are, and much less prepared for any kind of fight. Now both of you were going to die, and it would be your fault. Shit.

“I think you should leave,” he says. His words are clipped and polished, an Imperial Basic accent that stands out, especially on a planet like this one, but his voice is steady and calm. Confident. He has no idea what he’s dealing with. You can see him in profile in the dark, his shadow just slightly darker than all the blackness around him. He’s got a soft, handsome air, a _rich_ look, but his eyes are hard and serious, and you’re forced to do a double-take. He’s got the look of a killer in his eyes. The shiver that runs through you has nothing to do with the cold.

“This isn’t your business, boy.” It’s Tyrie speaking, you can tell, and you watch him, watch as the shadowy form of his blade flies through the air before landing back in his open palm. You huddle closer behind the man in front of you, using his body as a shield. Tyrie won’t kill him, not yet. Based on his accent and the material of his coat under your fingers, you can tell he’s got more credits to his name than most people around here could even dream of. There would be a lot of questions if someone like him went missing, and you know that Tyrie knows this, too. “I’m asking you to leave, and I’ll only do it once.”

“What do you want with her?” Out of the corner of your eye, you see it. His hand is moving, glacially slow to his side, brushing the hem of his coat out of the way. You almost let out a gasp from the relief, before you catch yourself and smother it with your hand. He’s got a blaster. You just pray that he’s a good shot.

“That little thief stole from us,” Braterr, the biggest of them, says, folding his arms over his chest, “and she’s gonna pay us back, one way or another.” The other men laugh, and your stomach reels with nausea. You had hoped they’d at least kill you quickly. The stranger has a grip on your arm, holding you in place, and it tightens. It’s like a message, like he’s saying _I’ll take care of it_. You worry your lip between your teeth; you aren’t used to letting someone else take care of _anything_ , especially not when your life was on the line.

Tyrie steps forward, holding his blade aloft, and even in the darkness it glints. “Turn her over to us, we’ll take-” The sound of his blaster hurts when it hits your ears, echoing around in the tight space, and the other men don’t have a chance to turn and run before he’s hit every single one of them, the mouth of the alley littered with bodies, the smouldering wounds in their chests glowing red. You’re not looking at that though. You’re too busy staring at the shiny First Order-issue blaster in his hand. At the insignia stitched onto the sleeve of his coat, illuminated by the fragmented light of the moon. You are so, incredibly _fucked_.

You had lost your blaster, but you still had your blade, and it’s pressed to the delicate skin of his throat before he can even lower his weapon. You maneuver your way around him, pulling him closer to the entrance and into a small pool of light, keeping the blade where it is, setting your jaw and your eyes so he knows that you mean it. You finally get a good look at his face, and his expression is solemn, maybe even mildly annoyed, like getting killed in some dingy alley would only be a minor inconvenience. 

“Drop it,” you say, and he complies, his blaster clattering to the ground by your feet , and he raises his hands behind his head, watching you. You keep your eyes on him, kicking it out of his reach. You knew better than to try and use it; those fuckers had all kinds of sensors to keep them from working in the wrong person’s hands.

“I thought I recognised you,” he murmurs, and his throat trembles against your blade, a thin sliver of blood appearing, the skin around it growing whiter, “you’re a wanted woman.”

“So I’ve been told.” You know he’s stalling, waiting for a chance to get the upper hand. You should get it over with, now, but you’ve already hesitated. It’s unlike you. Besides, you know his plan. What could a few more minutes hurt? He might have information that you could use. “Where is the Order looking for me?”

“Kijimi, last I heard.” That was good news. You’re staying under their radar. Or, you had been, at least, but it seems that you’ve fucked that up now.

“It’d be a shame if they heard any different,” you press the blade a little deeper, for emphasis, and he winces. You’ve never been known for having a conscience, but leaving him here to bleed out did seem pretty callous. He _had_ saved your life. Maybe you could come to some kind of an understanding.

“I don’t see why I would need to convince them otherwise,” he responds, and you smile to yourself. How typical. Another cowardly officer; it’s a miracle the First Order had lasted this long.

You relax only the slightest amount—that’s all it takes before he’s got you. Even as it’s happening you’re not sure how he does it, but suddenly the blade is out of your hand and he’s got an arm around you, securing you in place with a grip much stronger than you would have guessed, the metal of your blade at your neck, the cold edge of it biting right at your pulse.

“Make it quick.” You’re not going to beg, or cry. Not going to let him see you sweat. This is what you get for being generous, for letting your guard down. This is what happens when you think you can trust someone.

Nothing happens. He’s got your back to him, pressed up against him so that you can’t see his face, but you can feel his body heat whispering up against your skin beneath the layers you wear, too thin for cold like this. You soak up as much heat as you can, while you’re still able to feel it. You wish you could feel the sun on your skin, just one more time, but this will have to do. 

“The Order wants you alive.” Hux has decided to speak as little as possible. He’s trying not to breathe, trying to keep still, trying very hard to think about anything else besides the feeling of your body against his. He has to focus. You could be very useful to him, more useful than his no-good informant, but he’d have to get you back to the ship first.

“I’ve got a set of binders, on my right. Reach back. Cuff yourself,” he says, releasing one of your arms and pulling back on your neck, pressing the flat of the blade in deeper. The column of your throat falls into a streak of light, the muscles of your neck tensing as you stretch, but he forces himself to look away, to watch your hand as it fumbles at his side, as your fingers brush away the hem of his coat. He’s sweating in his gloves.

“Do you always keep these on you?” There’s a judgement in your voice, a hard, bitter kind of laughter as you secure one hand, then the other. You shift against him, moving with more force than necessary, broadcasting your anger, and Hux turns his eyes towards the sky, begging himself not to feel it.

“Yes,” he says, spinning you around by your shoulder so that you face him, and he checks the cuffs. He can breathe again, finally, but he avoids your gaze. He doesn’t want to see the venom in your eyes.

You watch him retrieve his blaster from the floor of the alley, sure that now there’s little point in trying to escape, alive at least. He was a _damn_ good shot; you wouldn’t make it too far, cuffs or no cuffs. You’ve been bested, and it makes your blood boil. You’ve always said that you’d rather be dead than beaten—so why don’t you run?

“Do you know why they want me?” You sound weak, and you bite at your lip, strong enough to draw blood and bring you back to your senses. He wasn’t going to tell you anything. He didn’t _owe_ you anything. But you’ve wondered—ever since you were first tipped off to their search—you’ve wondered why they wanted you.

He watches you with careful eyes, and you wait for him to say something. His expression is guarded, but you think he might be considering sharing the information that you need. Instead, he rests a hand on your shoulder guiding you towards the mouth of the alley.

“I’m not sure,” he says quietly, staring straight ahead, and you look up, searching for any more information in his countenance, finding nothing. You try to be subtle as you look over your shoulder, hoping for some place to run, to hide. There was a chance, if you were fast enough, smart enough, maybe you could escape.

“You don’t have to worry,” he says, and you snap your head back, nervous that he’d caught onto your plan, “you’re safe.” A guilty feeling swims in your stomach; he thought that you were afraid of those men, of more of them coming after you, and you were thinking about how to get away from him. You want to hit yourself, but you satisfy the need by biting your lip again instead. You need to snap out of _whatever_ this is, and fast. The first chance you get, you need to take him out. 

“Am I? Safe?” You ask instead, watching him. You deserve to know, after all, if you were just postponing the inevitable. He hesitates again. You should run.

“You’re safe with me,” he clarifies, and it doesn’t exactly make you feel better, but then again, it doesn’t make you feel worse. 

Hux knows that he shouldn’t be making promises like this. He’s not sure what his father wants with you after all, but he can’t forget the way that you looked at him in the alley—the tears in your eyes, the feeling of your hands as they held him so tightly in the cold dark. He wants to keep you safe, and he can’t just _leave_ you here. No, he’s going to protect your enemies, and from his father, and if he’s lucky, he’ll manage to stay alive.


	20. Lessons Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my GOD the reader teaching hux intimacy/ sex was so good! At some point i’d absolutely love if you could do a part two where he comes back later! Vulnerable and touch starved hux getting exposed to affection is a weak spot for me and wow i really love you and your writing
> 
> Thank you so much! All of you are much nicer to me than I deserve 🥺 I have made this for you, and I hope you love it! (here’s the first part if you missed it!)
> 
> Requests are closed ✨
> 
> Armitage Hux x Reader
> 
> Warnings: Tastefully horny as always 😉 (sfw)

He tries to knock quietly, but the sound carries through the empty hall outside of your room, the sound echoing much more loudly than it had any right to do. It’s late—later than he had expected his meeting to end—and he’s already panting from his quick walk from the casino floor, his heavy breathing doing nothing to calm his fractured nerves. It’s late, but he had to see you again. He couldn’t just _leave_. Not if you were waiting for him, not if he could …

The door opens and you’re behind it, squinting against the light of the corridor, your own room dark, the curtains drawn, blocking the glow that Canto Bight always carries. You look different than he remembers you, soft from sleep and bare-faced, but his chest still fills with the same ache he felt the first time you looked at him. Actually, it might be worse this time; now he feels it in his throat, in his hands, an ache that begs to be kissed away. 

“What time is it?” you ask him, your voice deep and rough from sleep, pushing your hair from your face with one hand before resting it against your neck. The ache in his chest is replaced with an unsettling guilt, followed by the sting of rejection. It’s clear to him you had fallen asleep after his departure, and he had woken you up by returning. You hadn’t been waiting for him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Hux isn’t sure what else to say, can’t put into words how much he wants you to invite him back in to the comforting dark of your little room, to stare at your face in the light of the window and breathe you into him. Stars, he feels pathetic. But he’s willing to be pathetic if it’s for you. He’s willing to be pathetic as long as you don’t turn him away. 

You stare at him, blinking slowly before the realization dawns, and you lose some of the drowsiness, your hand clawing through your hair a second time. If he were braver, he’d kiss you again right here in the hallway, press his own hands into your hair, grip the back of your neck and pull you close, push you back through the doorway and stumble to the bed. His cheeks grow red—he _had_ been that bold earlier, had you up against the wall before he left, had you in his lap. He’s not comfortable with these memories, not in the light of the hallway. He feels much too visible. He needs the darkness again.

“I’m sorry,” you say, when you finally speak, “I fell asleep. I was waiting for you.” You take his hand in yours, guiding him into the room and the door closes behind him, cutting the light of the hallway into a smaller and smaller sliver until it’s gone, and the room is made of varying shades of blackness, your form darker than the rest as you pull him deeper into your room.

He’s sick with want, desperate with it, sweating like he’s running a fever, but he’ll let you take the lead again, let you determine when and where and how he’ll get what he wants. You are doing him a favor after all, letting him back in after he had woken you, and he’s very grateful for that. He’s even more grateful when you kiss him again, long and slow and soft, pressing your lips to his with your arms thrown around his neck like he means something to you.

It _can’t_ be this good for everyone. There must be something unique about you in particular, because there’s no way it could feel this pleasurable to be kissed by just anybody. Why would anyone do anything else but kiss and be kissed? Why had he ever left you in the first place?

You part from him, so _very_ slowly, resting your face against his chest, and the beat of his heart thuds through his entire body; he feels it in his fingertips as they press into the soft skin of your waist, his fingers resting just under the hem of the shirt you had been sleeping in, and your skin is hot against his hands. Hands that never seem to feel warm enough, even in gloves, but you change that for him, the heat of you sinking beneath his skin, letting him feel warm. You move your arms from around his neck, and they encircle his waist instead, resting there, just holding him close. He resists the urge to pull away, settles into the feeling of the embrace despite the clawing at his throat, the spike in his adrenaline at the touch. Somehow _this_ is the most intimate thing that he’s experienced so far, and he finds himself blinking back tears as you breathe against him.

“How was your meeting?” you mumble into his chest, walking backwards in small steps until your legs hit your mattress, and you tumble over, letting go of him so that he can fall beside you, yawning and stretching before turning to look at him, getting close so you can see him better in the dark.

“Much too long.” He reaches for you, brushing a hand over your hair. He _has_ to be touching you—he can’t waste a moment in your presence, not when he knows there’s a limit to the time he has left. You feel good, underneath his fingers. You feel good everywhere.

“I’m glad you came back,” you whisper, and he closes what’s left of the continually shrinking distance between you, bringing your mouth to his again—where it belongs, as far as he’s concerned. You kiss him and kiss him and kiss him; little gasps, sometimes moans, escaping through your lips even as he feels you relax into the mattress, your head slowly listing to the side as you fight against the need to sleep.

“I’m sorry,” you say when you can’t help it anymore, when the need is too much and you let yourself fall back against the bed. His eyes have adjusted to the low light, and Hux watches you breathe, your eyelashes fluttering against your cheeks as you try to keep your eyes open, your hands stuttering, tracing lazy circles over the hollow of his cheek.

“Don’t be. I should let you rest.” It appears that his time with you is finally up. He tells himself that it’s fair; he’s gotten more of it than he deserves, but that doesn’t mean he likes it. He rises from the bed with reluctance, stealing one last brush of his fingers over the back of your hand.

“Wait,” you say, and you take his hand in your own, sitting up once again, “you could still stay for the night, if you wanted.” You look away from him as you wait for an answer, running your hand over the edge of the mattress. His heart skips, and the air in the room leaves. He can’t believe that you want him to stay. 

“Are you sure?” He finds the ability to speak somewhere deep in your eyes when you look back at him, finds it alongside desire—his own thoughts and feelings echoed back in your gaze.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” you say with a little laugh, and you move away from him, leaving a space empty that he immediately decides to fill. He’s still fully dressed, but that doesn’t matter, not when you curl up against him, your hand resting over his heart. He lays back, eyes open in the dark, and it smells like flowers, like champagne and the bright, electric air that blows through the city below you. He falls asleep with the smell of you filling his lungs. It's everything he needs.


	21. Notice Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What about Hux x Reader where the reader isn’t scared by authority and won’t back down especially when they’re right. Heat of the moment/angst/sparks a relationship? 
> 
> Hello sweet anon! I have this for you! Hope you like it!
> 
> Requests are closed ✨
> 
> Armitage Hux x Reader
> 
> Warnings: Language, some angst, and I think that’s it!

**“** What. Do. You. Think. You. Are. Doing?” General Hux spits the words in the shadow of the hallway, his hand circling the bare skin of your bicep. Skin on skin contact; that’s a first. You’d like to get yelled at out of uniform more often. Not that he’d ever bring you back to Canto Bight with him, after this; you’d have to enjoy it while it lasted. 

You pull your arm from his grasp—it doesn’t take much effort, he’s not holding you very tightly—but there’s a delicious friction as his fingers slide against your skin, like he’s unwilling to part with you just yet. You’ve never gotten him this close to the edge before, never seen the cracks in his shiny little demeanor split this wide. Gods, it’s hot. You’d like to push him further, but now is certainly not the time.

He’s back in control, quick as he always is, smoothing a hand through his hair and straightening his suit jacket, but you can still see the subtle signs of his anger that you’ve come to know so well: the way he clenches his fists to keep his hands from shaking, or the tension he holds in his jaw. The muscles at his throat stay corded, and you’d like to run your lips over the skin there, let the heat of your breath brush over him. Maybe then he’d finally relax.

“You deliberately disobeyed me,” he whispers, the sound of his voice _just_ loud enough for you to hear him over the clamor of the casino floor. You never get to see him this close, never get to feel his anger roll off him in such an intimate setting. It’s another thing you’ll miss this when you’re back on the _Finalizer_. Being scolded over a desk or on the bridge was going to lose all it’s appeal compared to this.

Gods, it’s like you’re some kind of addict, pressing all his buttons all the time. It’s a miracle you haven’t been fired yet.

“I gave you one command. I told you to let me handle it. Why didn’t you listen to me?” He’s not done scolding you, waiting for some kind of answer. Ahh, _shit_. How were you going to explain yourself now? Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t put it into words. There were no words for the pull you felt for him, the desire. No words to explain how badly you wanted his attention, even if it was negative. _Especially_ if it was negative.

“General, we both know that it’s a bullshit deal,” you have to salvage this, quickly, before the meeting goes even further south, “I was calling her out on it.”

“And I’m telling you that I can handle this. Myself.” He looms over you, and your back hits the wall behind you, and the cold of the marble is shocking on the bare skin of your shoulders, but not as shocking as his dismissal. It’s more cruel than you expected. You should have seen this coming.

There’s nothing you can say now, not with the way the back of your throat constricts when you meet his eyes again. It stings, the rejection. You can’t let him see how badly it stings. If he regrets the words it certainly doesn’t show, and you swallow away your wounded pride, following him back to the tables, one step behind him, like always. The path is crowded with beautiful people, but they part for him and you move through a sea of whispers. You can see it in their faces, every single one of them. They want a piece of it, a taste of the power he exudes. They don’t know what it would cost them.

He won’t speak to you, back on the ship, won’t say a damn word. He’s not angry, no, not like before, not like he usually is when you pull shit like you just pulled. He’s furious, a blizzard behind his eyes. He’s freezing you out.

“Aren’t you going to yell at me, sir?” you ask, wincing. The words sound desperate, even to your own ears. He’s bound to figure you out now. Even if he didn’t kill you for fucking up the deal, you’d certainly die of embarrassment.

“I don’t see any point in that now-” he replies, so nonchalant, resigned even. You’ve never seen him _resigned_ before. “Since you’ve never listened to a damn word I say.” The guilty feeling that’s been sitting in your stomach since you left the casino swells, so big that it fills every part of you. He’s right, after all. You never had been very good at listening to him. Just not for the reasons he thinks.

“General, I- ” You have to pause, think of how you would finish that sentence. _I what? I’m sorry? I only act like this to avoid doing something_ really _stupid? I only question you all the time because I’m trying to stop myself from jumping you in every abandoned interrogation room and storage closet that the_ Finalizer _has to offer?_

“I’m requesting your transfer as soon as we get back to the Finalizer.” His words are curt, heavy with finality, and slice into like a knife. If he had killed you, it would have hurt less.

“General, please- "you really are begging now, and you don’t care if he knows it. You had never meant to push him this far. You just wanted him to notice you.

"My mind has been made, Lieutenant,” he sighs, “maybe you’ll have better luck working under someone you actually respect."He drops his gaze, dejected, unable to look at you and the sight of him looking so defeated rips your heart from your chest. _You_ did this to him. And you need to make it right.

You’re careful, as you move to the seat beside him, refusing to look away from the hurt you had caused. Your voice is small when you finally speak,” I do respect you, sir.“ The look he gives you is scathing, but you do your best to appear sincere, forcing yourself to make eye contact, even when his gaze burns.

"Then why do you do it?” He surrenders to his anger, letting out the emotions that he normally keeps hidden. “Why?” He stares at you, waiting for a response, but it’s difficult to gather your thoughts when he’s looking at you with so much fire in his eyes. The silence that follows is loaded. You know he’s not going to back down.

“Tell me.” The command makes you shake, and he’s so close, close enough for you to see every one of the pale freckles that dot his cheeks, close enough for you to pick up on the scent of standard-issue soap, and cologne, and cigarettes that clings to him and muddles your senses. Close enough to kiss him.

You press your lips to his, only able to savor the feeling for a moment before he pulls away in shock. His expression is guarded when you get a good look at him, his brow furrowed and his jaw squared. You try not to let him see how mortified you are, but in the end you have to turn away, the shame refusing to leave your face.

His fingers are firm on your jaw, when he turns you back to face him, but the pressure of his lips is incredibly gentle as he explores your mouth with his own. You have to brace yourself from the shock of it, and your hand finds his thigh as you wobble in place. He’s making you dizzy. You think the feeling might be mutual.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he asks against your lips and the feeling makes you smile, makes you smile wider knowing that he doesn’t want to part from you just yet.

“I didn’t think you’d feel the same,” It’s easier to admit, when you can feel his hands on you, makes you brave, “I just wanted you to notice me.”

“I always noticed you,” he whispers. It’s better than the yelling. _Way_ better. You’ll never get enough.

“I just thought-” gods, you really were going to tell him everything, huh? Every stupid thought, falling out of your mouth with the simple press of his lips, “that you could do better.”

“Better?” He pulls you closer—you’re practically in his lap now—and you hope that the pilot is smart enough not to check in on you, now that you and the general are incredibly _busy_ , “as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing better than this.” He kisses you again, and you’re inclined to agree.


	22. His Pilot (Bonus Drabble)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since you mentioned it, how about hux x pilot!reader but entirely from his perspective? 
> 
> Hello love! Thank you for suggesting this! I’m so glad you liked the original Hux x Pilot! Reader to ask for more! (Chapters 5, 13, and 14 are the original "His Pilot" mini-series if you'd like a refresher!)
> 
> Requests are closed ✨
> 
> Armitage Hux x Pilot! Reader
> 
> Warnings: No, but! I do want to clarify something: when I got this ask, I was really excited because I thought this was such a cool idea and I knew it would be an awesome challenge for me. Surprise! It turned out to be way f*cking harder than I thought it would be, so I kind of caved, and came up with this instead. This is the kitchen scene from part one of the mini-series from Hux’s POV. I hope you enjoy, let me know what you think!

It looks exactly like the kitchen that he sees sometimes in his dreams. On closer inspection, he finds minute differences, but the resemblance is uncanny, and he counts each change in his mind, and then counts them again to make sure that this is real. None of it grounds him, not until he finds you.

You look more peaceful in sleep—which he supposes is true for everyone—but he thinks it might be different on you, maybe because he’s so used to seeing you tense and skittish. Something about the way you look—the soft parting of your lips, the gentle slope of your brow—brings a stinging feeling to his eyes, and he has to look away; he finds that taking in the kitchen again isn’t much better.

“I’m sorry, General, had you been standing there long?” He’s startled you awake, and you jump to your feet, a little unsteady, the familiar look of anxiety on your face, the one that stays whenever he’s around. You seem so far from him, like he really _is_ dreaming, and you’re outside of it, far off and awake. He studies the kitchen again—to remind himself that he’s not a child anymore. That he’s not going back.

“Sir, are you alright?” you ask, and your voice betrays a genuine concern. He needs to get a hold of himself—put up a strong front. It’s not even the same kitchen.

Try as he might, he can’t manage it, not when you’re watching him. He feels magnified under your gaze, each emotion multiplied and he cannot hide them quickly enough. You’re _seeing_ him, and maybe he needs to be seen. He doesn’t want to feel this way anymore.

The stone floor is cool and hard beneath him when he lowers himself to the ground, and you follow his lead with some hesitation. He can see less of the kitchen now, just the fire place and some of the far counters, the windows fogged over and smeared with streaks of rain. It looks much too familiar from this height. He finds himself waiting, even though he knows better, for _her_ to appear, like she used to. Like she sometimes does in his dreams.

“I lived here, on Arkanis, when I was very young, in a place very similar to this one.” He’s speaking to you because there’s no one else to tell, because he knows that you’ll listen, because he has to. “It’s all … more familiar than I expected.” That’s an understatement, but it’s all he can handle. You stay silent, to your credit, allow him the space to think, to breathe, to be in this moment.

“My mother worked in a kitchen in the estate,” it slips out, and a gasp he can’t stifle follows closely behind. Oh stars, how long had it been since he last said those words? _My mother_. It takes everything in him to steady his breathing. He can’t let himself picture her face. He doesn’t deserve to see it.

She would be proud of you, sir,” you whisper the words, so that you don’t disturb him, and he scoffs. Obviously you think too highly of him. The best thing he ever did for his mother was leave her the hell alone, even if it gutted him to do it.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” The crackling of the fireplace fills the air between you, and the silence isn’t exactly comfortable. General Hux has done a wonderful job of fucking this up. He’d be surprised if you ever wanted to speak to him again. He’s just as surprised to find that he _does_ want to speak to you again. Such a pity.

“Why are you telling me this, General?” Your voice isn’t kind, necessarily, but he thinks he might sense some kind of understanding, and he has to look at you; he can’t help himself. 

“I’m not sure.” Why is he telling you all of this? It’s not going to change anything. It won’t make him feel any better about what had happened to him. It wouldn’t bring his mother back. “I just … I’d like you to stay with me, if that’s alright.” You nod, to his surprise, leaning back against the table behind you and keeping your eyes on the fire. You stay in that position, even when the general’s breathing becomes labored and erratic and he knows that you know that he’s crying—warm, wet tears for the life he had lost. For her. It’s funereal, his mourning, a burial without a body. Without closure. His grief would swallow him whole to make up for his lack.

Your hand inches closer to him along the rough stone, and against his better judgement, he takes it. You keep very still, focusing on the fire with an inhuman amount of determination, and your hand doesn’t flinch, even as he watches the blood drain from your fingers with the force of his grip. His breathing slows of its own accord, the tears cease, and he thinks it must have something to do with the feeling of your fingers intertwined in his. The fact that you’re willing to bear a little pain if it means that his suffering might be eased.

It’s a little while later that he finally shifts, once the tears have dried on his skin, and you pull away, turning your gaze to your lap. The kitchen looks the same when he stands, but its power has been diminished, and he finds that he can take it in without the ache in his chest. He can’t say the same about you.

The fire has diminished, but that’s not the only reason he’s seeing you in a new light. You return his gaze once you catch him staring, and the corners of your mouth turn up in the smallest of smiles, setting a glowing warmth in Hux’s lungs. He’s not exactly sure what has caused the difference, but he thinks he may have underestimated his new pilot. It’s a mistake he does not plan on making again.


	23. Casual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm another anon but I'd love a jeaolous fic from Hux's perspective (If you're up for it of course) 👀  
> Hello love! I have this jealous Hux blurb for you; I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Requests are open ✨(you can request here in the comments or on my tumblr (starlightsearches.tumblr.com)
> 
> Armitage Hux x Reader
> 
> Warnings: Some language and some angst!

General Hux can practically hear the tension in his jaw, the way it flexes, the grinding of his teeth as he pretends not to notice you—a skill he used to be quite proud of, until now. Now, he thinks it might be clear to everyone on the bridge that he has to fight to keep his eyes away from your station, thinks every stray glance or quiet whisper is a sign that they all know his secret.

This is his own fault. He’s never been good at being casual—no one’s ever expected it of him. But when you sauntered into his office on a night when every part of him felt too tightly wound, when you leaned in close—the smell of your perfume filling his senses—and offered to help him _relax_ , well, how could he have refused? Especially when he had been imagining this same scenario over and over and over again since the first time he saw you. 

He has to be casual with you, because you’re so casual with him, and it makes him second-guess everything. Would it be too much, he wonders, if he brought you caff to one your private meetings? If he kissed you one last time before you left his office? If he sought you out when he was feeling anything that couldn’t be fixed with an encounter in a storage closet? 

He should have fired you before it got this far, _would_ have fired you, if it had been anyone else but you. Now he’s pinned here in his own private hell, unleashing that hell on everyone he comes into contact with and hating himself for it.

A flurry of noise reaches him from your side of the bridge, and he turns to look, even though he knows it will cause him pain. Admiral Roleck is back by your side, whispering some faint praise into your ear, and you smirk, whispering back. It’s more than he can bear.

“Take over the bridge,” he whispers to his second in command, ignoring their look of surprise as he crosses the bridge in a few quick strides. 

“Excuse me, admiral,” he says to Roleck, “I need to speak with the lieutenant, in _private_.” Everyone on the bridge watches the events unfold, and General Hux can feel their hungry eyes, desperate for a morsel of gossip they can share later over their next meal.

“Of course, general,” Roleck responds, but he rests a casual hand on your shoulder, leaning in once again to speak to you, his eyes still locked on the general, “we’ll speak more later.” Once again, Hux is reminded that _casual_ and _exclusive_ are complete opposites, and he’s forced to wonder _exactly_ why the admiral needs to speak to you about. You give the man a distracted nod, aware of the tension but seemingly ignorant to its source, watching General Hux with questioning eyes as you follow him to his office.

You move in on him as soon as the door closes, as you’re accustomed to do, but it’s different this time—you kiss him gently, carefully, because you know he’s upset, and he lets you because his selfishness outweighs his anger.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” you say when you pull away, too aware that he is not reciprocating your affection. He’s about to do it—ruin everything. You won’t want him after this, and he understands that, but wanting all of you and only getting a part is killing him.

“I can’t do this,” it’s a quick response, a gut reaction, and it tears into you, he can see it. It hurts him to hurt you, but he can’t live like this. _Fuck_ casual. “I need to know if there’s anyone else.”

“General, I-”

“I won’t share you. I can’t. If there’s someone else, then I need to end this.” It’s frightening to speak to you this way, with words that weigh so heavily in the air that separates you from him, but it makes him feel brave too.

Your silence is massive as it floods his office, squeezing all the air out of the room as it fills the space. You think carefully, and Hux watches every movement with terror in his heart as your lips move to form the words that might break him.

“There’s no one else but you,” you whisper, and he can breathe again, his heart filling with pure light. “I only want you, general.” 

Holding you in his arms has never felt like such a gift, and hold you he does, pulling you close to him in a brief and foreign display of weakness. You kiss him again, slow and sweet, and he savors it. He was right before—fuck casual.


	24. Shattered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi please may i request a hux x reader where you’re also a general and you hear a loud bang in the room next to your office which is hux’s office. (Maybe he kicked the wall or something in frustration). You go to check all is well and step in to find him head in hands sat against the wall having a panic attack and so you help him out of it and then discuss it with him and show him some much needed affection and human connection. I love you’re writing, you’re one of my absolute favourite bloggers
> 
> Hello sweet friend! Thank you for the kind words, and I’m sorry that this request took so much time! I kind of adapted it a bit, I hope you don’t mind 😊
> 
> Requests are still open here (but not on tumblr) ✨
> 
> Armitage Hux x Reader
> 
> Warnings: I was feeling very angsty when I first wrote this, and I think a lot of that seeped into the story. Also discussions of a mild injury, and mentions of blood. Hope you enjoy!

As far as neighbors went, General Hux was one of the best, all things considered. You never heard him, hardly ever saw him, and you liked that just fine. It was certainly an improvement from your last assignment, before your promotion. That base had been frigid, and so damn loud, like there was never a moment of peace—especially not for you, practically running the whole damn show. While it had been a slight adjustment in the beginning, you much preferred being on the _Finalizer_. The work was engaging, the company was pleasant enough, and your quarters were blessedly quiet.

That’s why the shattering sound is especially jarring, and your first thought, however ridiculous, is _assassination_. The glass at your desk spills when you jump to your feet, and you rush to move the data pads and various items out of the way of the trailing water before running to the door and out into the hall, pounding on the general’s door furiously, only to be surprised when it actually opens.

You step inside and the darkened room, and General Hux approaches, looking very much alive and un-assassinated. He glares at you through bloodshot eyes, and for a moment you want to leave, to run away from this place and forget that you were ever here. That’s the effect his gaze has on you.

“Did you need something, _general_?” he says the title with a mouthful of disgust, and you pause, waiting for the words to come. There’s nothing to say, though, nothing that you could say without making yourself seem paranoid and irrational. It’s obvious that he is fine, or at least, he seems fine.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion, general, I thought I heard something,” you reply, slowly backing away to the door, hoping to escape some of the embarrassment, “I wanted to make sure that you were alright.”

“Of course I’m alright,” his voice is harsh, harsh enough to surprise you. You’ve only worked with Hux for a short amount of time, and although you knew he was upset about your appearance on this ship, he’s never been so outwardly cruel to you. Something is wrong.

You take in the scene again, noticing a few things. There’s no light on in his quarters, but General Hux is still in his uniform, despite the lateness of the hour, so he must not have been sleeping. And then there’s the way he’s standing, so stiff and guarded, with one hand behind his back. On the far side of the room, something glints.

“Is something wrong with your hand, general?” As soon as the words leave your lips, he bristles, immediately on the defensive.

“As I told you before, I am clearly _fine_. I’m not sure how you ran things on the Derus base, but here I expect a certain level of decorum from my fellow officers, and that includes not barging into my quarters and asking personal questions. If that isn’t something you can manage, then the _Finalizer_ is not for you.” The words hit you like a slap to the face, like an avalanche, and you struggle to breathe under the weight of his disapproval. He’s called to mind every insecurity, every instance where you have been reminded that you’re so often out of your element here. It paralyzes you, this reminder that you don’t belong. You had been able to convince yourself that it was impostor syndrome, that the others, even Hux, appreciated your presence. Apparently you were incorrect. He continues, advancing on you like a force of nature, a little wild, full of rage.

“How can I be asked to lead if I’m not given the basic respect of privacy in my own space? If I am not given one simple courtesy, if I am treated this way-” he stops, his teeth bared, with such anger in his eyes that you flinch, After all this time in the Order, you had never been treated this way. You knew he was angry, you knew he didn’t like the perceived slight that your presence implied, but still—he had no right to talk to you this way. 

"What is wrong with you?” It’s not a question you mean to ask out loud, but the words slip out anyway, and you find you don’t regret them in the slightest. You had been wrong about the general before. He’s not the man you thought he was, and you can’t stand the idea of being around him for another minute.

You turn your back on him, turn to the door and the light of the hallway, ready to leave this place. Maybe you’d have room in yourself to regret this tomorrow, but the only thing you can feel right now is the bright sting of anger that attempts to mask your wounded pride.

The palm of his hand is slick and sticky when he grabs you by the wrist, pulling you to a stop, and you yank your arm out of his grasp, uninterested in anything else he has to say. That is, until you see the blood, visible in your periphery, staining your arm in the shape of a watery hand print. That makes you stop.

“Please,” his voice breaks when he sees you hesitate, his pleas too desperate to be said face to face, “I need help.”

Desperation is a language in which you are fluent, and it’s one that you can’t ignore. Your anger still swims in your chest, but you won’t turn your back on his brokenness when it so closely mirrors your own.

The door closes, the lights turn on, and you get to work, caring for him with practical efficiency: hand first, glass second. You don’t allow yourself to think about the way he shakes at the contact as you bandage his palm, watching as the blood seeps through the white layers that you wrap methodically over the cut. You don’t allow yourself to wonder why a man like General Hux would own and then destroy such a delicate porcelain cup, the glittering fragments scattered across the floor. You just bandage and clean and ignore. You’re still hurt. You’re still angry. And you still want to help him.

You finish, tossing the final shards of glass into the waste, and then turn your attention back to the general. If you hadn’t figured out that something was wrong earlier, you’d definitely know now: you’ve never seen him sit for this long. He stares at you, looking lost, searching for guidance, but you’ve helped more than enough. You could leave.

A harsh sigh of surrender puffs through your nose, and you move over to his small kitchen area, searching through the drawers and cupboards at random until you find what you’re looking for.

“What are you doing?” he asks, affronted, until he sees the glasses in your hand, the bottle in the other. You set them on the table with more force than necessary, and they rattle against each other, a clinking chorus that somehow startles you both.

“You look like you could use a drink, general,” you say, pouring the amber liquid into his glass first, “and I know I could.”

You’re not sure how much time you spend sipping in silence, but the lower the liquid in the bottle drops, the smaller you feel, like you’re shrinking inside of yourself, able to search through the caverns and hollows of your mind. You wander inside your own consciousness, but no matter where you travel, your thoughts always return to General Hux. Had he really meant it, that you didn’t belong here? Or was his anger misdirected, and you just happened to be the closest living target? You find yourself shifting in your seat, wells of sadness that you normally kept damned finding their way into the greater cavities of your thoughts. You can’t keep thinking this way; you need a distraction.

“Are you alright?” You say to Hux, the question floating to the surface, bubbling from your lips like a laugh or a sob. You watch him drain his glass again, swaying side to side to the tempo of some imaginary song, and for a moment you’re not thinking about yourself.

“No, general,” he says, slurring his words but proper, as always, “I’m not.” It’s the answer you expected; why don’t you know how to respond?

“Do you want to talk about it?” It’s a stupid question—you know it’s a stupid question even as you say it; your voice sounds incredulous to your own ears. You must be drunker than you thought. But you’d like to know. Despite everything, you want him to be alright. You need him to be alright. It’s difficult to admit, but you rely on him. _Admire_ him, if you’re being brutally honest. 

“Not tonight,” he looks at you when he says it, his movements a sigh, and his gaze loaded with meaning, the softness in his pale green eyes consuming and powerful and defenseless. With just one look, he’s rendered you speechless. You watch his hand skim over the surface of the table until it makes contact with your own, just the tips of his fingers overlapping yours. The contact is minimal, but the effect is not; you feel your face grow warmer, and not just from the drink.

“Are you alright?” he asks the question now, and you’re not sure how to give him an honest answer.

“I don’t think so,” you whisper the words, the pleasant drunkenness from before warping into something that splinters and cracks along your weakest points. It’s been so long since you let yourself feel this way. Suddenly the feeling of his hand on yours is much more welcome, and it grounds you. You’re not okay right now, but he isn’t either.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he keeps talking, his voice calm and soothing for you, and the difference makes you laugh. You’re glad he’s here too. You don’t want to be alone.


	25. Graduation pt. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I'm in love with the oneshot you did of Hux x Reader graduating from the academy. I would like to request a part 2 please, where Armitage sees Reader again for the first time on the Finalizer. Thanks, hun!! ❤❤❤  
> Could I request a Hux x reader where they’ve been casually flirting for a bit but when reader hears Hux was injured on a mission, realized how they feel and rushes to find Hux? 
> 
> Hello friends! I was feeling really guilty about opening up my requests before I finished some of the older ones, but now I’m very glad that I did because i was able to combine these two, and I love the way that it turned out. Hope you guys like it!
> 
> Requests are closed ✨
> 
> Armitage Hux x Classmate! Reader Pt. 3
> 
> Warnings: Discussions of an injury, and I think that’s it!

He’s still not sure why he had volunteered for the mission, not really. It was uncharacteristically impulsive, as he had been sitting in the meeting with his head down, occasionally flitting his glance in your direction. Captain Prayjor had made the opportunity sound exciting: the chance to be on the ground during an attack, a time to use the skills he had so carefully cultivated in all those simulations, but even then he had held back, unwilling to make the choice just yet.

Life on the _Finalizer_ was different from what Armitage had expected; some of those differences were good, others were . . . less than ideal. Perhaps the most surprising was also the best: he rarely saw his father aboard. Apparently the general was much too busy to concern himself with any of the new lieutenants, including his own son, and Armitage liked that well enough. Unfortunately, he didn’t manage to see much of you either.

He had thought that things would be different, after the cadet’s ball, after the kiss you had given him in the moonlight on Arkanis, but he had managed to fuck that up. It was just so hard, now—to speak to you, to look at you, to be normal. Every time he tried, the memory was conjured again, and each time in more devastating detail: how pretty you had looked inching closer to him outside your dormitory, how his skin had turned to fire and melted away under the pressure of your lips on his cheek, how _bare_ he felt in your presence. Every time he looked at you, he was overcome with a flood of desires, and the inability to act on them. He wasn’t brave enough.

It was natural, for the distance to grow between you, a spreading crevasse that Armitage widened every time he caught your eye and then looked away, with every curt answer he gave to your genuine questions, and he didn’t know how to stop it. He knew you’d give up on him soon enough, though, and it would tear him apart.

Captain Prayjor had finished his presentation, waiting patiently for the first brave volunteer, but the room stayed silent. Hux watched you closely as Jamisa, one of the other new additions to the _Finalizer_ crew, leaned over next to you, whispering just loud enough for Armitage to hear, “sounds dangerous, I don’t think I could do it,” and you had nodded in assent just as your eyes met his. Electricity had filled the air, and he hadn’t noticed that his hand was raised until he heard Captain Prayjor calling his name.

“Yes, lieutenant?” he had said, and everyone turned to Armitage, waiting to see if he would really agree to this, if he would be the first of them to take all the theoretical learning that they had done and see if it really worked.

No one breathed, no one moved, the weight of all the eyes and expectations of everyone in the room rested upon his shoulders, but only yours mattered in that moment, to Armitage. He needed to be brave. He wanted more. If this is what it would take for you to finally see him as more than just a friend, then no amount of danger would make him turn away.

“I’d like to volunteer for the mission, captain.”

In the days leading up to the event, Armitage couldn't keep his mind from wandering with outlandish fantasies, his thoughts filled with images of himself, a little bruised, a little bloody, but also victorious and vital, returning to the _Finalizer_. And you would be there, of course, waiting for him, eager to see that he had returned alive. Things would change, in that moment. You'd see him the way he wanted to be seen by you, and everything would be different. He’d close the divide that he had created.

The reality was much more pathetic, of course. He and Prayjor hadn't even been on the ground for the fight, instead directing troopers from a command ship, only leaving the safety of the transport once everything was finished. He had surveyed the battlefield after the fact, stepping over the charred landscape of discarded blasters and fallen troopers with a distinct feeling of dissatisfaction.

He only found out what really happened much later, about the rebel in hiding, the blaster shot and how they had rushed him, unconscious, back to the _Finalizer_ , to the medbay. So his return had not been what he had expected at all. But then again, neither was anything that happened after.

He wakes with a headache, his limbs sore from the lack of movement, and even with his eyes closed there's too much light. He grunts and shifts, testing out the limits of his body, but his limbs haven’t quite woken up yet, left weighed down and immobile. He waits patiently, working up to the point that he can flex his fingers, but he freezes when something in his palm impedes the movement. His eyes flash open, and you're the first thing he sees, sitting at his bedside, facing away from him, towards the door. He sees you first, and then his gaze wanders to his hand, where your fingers are intertwined with his.

You don't notice that he’s awake just yet, focused intently on your data pad, which rests in your lap. Despite the effect it had on him, the light in the room is dim; most of the overhead lights are off and the majority of the light pours in from the corridor outside of his room—it must be the middle of the night cycle.

A familiar feeling of panic rises in his chest, but not for any normal reason, not because he’s woken in a strange place with no memory of how he got there. It doesn’t take long for him to figure out he’s in the medbay—not with the medical equipment and the thin mattress beneath him and the remnants of sedatives he can still feel running their course through his veins. No, he’s panicked because of you, because he can already feel his palm grow moist against your own, because any moment now you’ll realize that he’s awake and he’ll have to find something to say.

He stays as still as he can manage, ignoring the pain that emanates from his side, trying to relax into this moment. He watches you as he tries to maintain the steady, sleepy rhythm of his breathing, paying close attention to every detail he can, because he’d like to savor this moment, and what it means. You’re here. You care about him.

You shift in your seat, removing your hand from his and turning to face him. Armitage manages to close his eyes again, just in time, pretending to be asleep.

He feels the gentle brush of your fingers against his hairline, and he has to remind himself to breathe as your touch sparks against his nerve endings, your fingers curling through his hair with an affectionate gentleness that he hadn’t felt before.

Can people blush when they’re asleep? Armitage can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, up to his forehead, and his breath stutters through his nose, the beep of the heart monitor beside the bed following suit. Your fingers still, and he can feel you waiting to see if he might wake.

Armitage lets his eyes fall open, and they meet yours immediately, like fate, like it was meant to be. You’re beautiful, even without sleep, even with bloodshot eyes that tear up when you realize that he’s awake. For a moment, you’re both motionless, and there’s a silent communication that flows between you—for just a moment, he believes with every fiber of himself that you might actually kiss him.

But just as soon as it was created, the connection is broken. You break away from him, pulling your hand from where it rests in his hair, embarrassed, your eyes traveling to the doorway before they return to his, guarded now.

“You’re awake,” you whisper, fiddling with the sheet at the edge of the bed, maybe to give your hands some purpose besides touching him, “how are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better,” he responds, and the rasp of his own voice surprises you both. You search the room, your eyes landing on the stand beside the bed and you take the cup that rests there into your hands, holding it out to him. Armitage shifts into a sitting position, wincing at the sharp, smarting pain that engulfs his side when he moves. Your other hand reaches out to steady him, and he flushes again at the contact, just now realizing that they had left him bare from the waist up, your palm warm against the pale skin of his rib cage. He settles back into a sitting position, but you don’t remove your hand just yet, waiting until he stops before you pull away. 

“Do you remember what happened?” you ask as you hand him the cup, pausing to make sure that he has a good hold on it before you let go. Armitage thinks he should probably be embarrassed with the way that you’re doting on him, but he finds he doesn’t mind the attention. He shakes his head before bringing the glass to his lips and drinking the water in long, slow sips.

“You were shot twice,” you say as he drains the glass, “before the troopers could apprehend the rebel. They only just missed your spine.” Your voice cracks on the last word; and a tear slips down your cheek before you brush it away. Armitage goes rigid, watching you carefully as he sets the glass back down. Maybe he’s misreading the signs, but that tear holds meaning. He thinks that this might be the first real sign that you care about him—as more than a friend.

“Thank you for being here,” he whispers, and he inches his hand across the crisp, white sheets towards the place where your hand rests on the edge of the mattress. A surge of warmth flows through him as he takes your hand in his—he’s feeling brave.

“I’m glad that you’re alright,” you say with a sniffle, trying to stay any more tears that threaten to fall as they pool in the corners of your eyes, “if you hadn’t been, if it had been-”

Pain shoots up his side again as Armitage lunges forward, but it doesn’t even register, not when he’s focused on the infinitely more pleasurable feeling of your mouth on his as he kisses away the worries that you were unable to express. A white-hot thrill shoots through him as you kiss him back, your lips parting with a little laugh, your hand resting against the crook of his neck as you pull him closer, his fingers already entwined in your hair.

It’s the alarming of the heart monitor that finally makes you pull away from him, the shrill measure of his accelerated heartbeat echoing through the room. You’re shy all of a sudden, brushing your fingertips over the small smile that rests on your lips, and the realization hits him with force: you’ve wanted him all this time, just as much as he did. How could he be so foolish? How could he have let his fears deprive him of something this wonderful?

Armitage struggles to get his breathing back in check, and he can feel that he’s blushing all the way down to his chest, his skin flushed with delight. 

“I should probably let you rest,” you say when you look at him again, brushing your fingers down the length of his arm, leaving a pleasant chill in their wake. “I’ll be back tomorrow?” 

“I’ll be out of here by then,” he responds, grabbing your hand as your fingers dance over his palm, bringing it to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles. If he had his way, they’d let him out of the medbay right now. He wants to be with you, and he knows that you want to be with him. And nothing, not even a blaster wound, was going to keep him away from you anymore.


	26. Sunshine Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s finally here! I got a ton of love for my CEO! Hux oneshot Sunshine, and I’ve been thinking about doing a part 2 ever since. Let me know what you guys think!
> 
> Requests are closed ✨
> 
> CEO! Hux x Barista! Reader Modern AU
> 
> Warnings: I genuinely don't know. Probably nothing?

Hux hasn’t been able to get a good look at you—not since he saw you waiting for him outside the restaurant he had chosen—and the sight of you looking so lovely in the fading evening light had made him stop in the middle of the road, frozen where he stood until the chorus of honking cars had motivated him through the rest of the crosswalk. It’s still burned in his mind, printed on the backs of his eyelids: the way your hair brushed against your cheek in the soft breeze, the graceful movement of your arms as you gave him a little wave, your sunshine smile.

Now that you’re together, waiting in the lobby of the restaurant for your table, he can only take you in glimpses, and each one fills him with more pleasure than before. He can tell that you put in a little extra effort for tonight—extra effort for _him_ , and it’s making him jittery, nervous, like he’s had too much caffeine.

You seem fidgety too, as he sneaks another glance, brushing your fingers over your skirt, smoothing the fabric beneath your palms again and again like it might change into something else with just a touch. It’s a very pretty garment, a red sundress that hugs your curves tightly and flows gently over your hips—a detail he noticed from the beginning—but he can tell that you feel self-conscious as you stare at the glittering socialites that litter the restaurant in their matte black dresses and red-bottom shoes. You’re out of your element, here, and although you probably can’t tell, Hux is too.

“You look beautiful,” he still can’t look at you straight on, but he manages to whisper the words in your direction as he takes one of your hands in his, a bold move that he should have done long ago. It’s hard for him to remember that you agreed to be here with him—that you gave him your number without him asking, that you must return at least _some_ of his feelings. This thought is confirmed when you look him in the eye, gifting him with a grateful smile that makes his heart race.

“Thank you,” you say, looking down again, breaking eye contact and giving him a chance to recover, “have you been here before?”

“No, actually, but I hear the food is excellent,” he replies, and you nod, examining the space. He had panicked almost immediately after making the call the night before, his hands shaking as he dialed the number you had given him, his mind providing him with plenty of outlandish scenarios to keep him occupied while the dial tone sounded off in his ear. What if you had given him a fake number? What if he had typed it incorrectly? . . . What if you had changed your mind? That panic hadn’t ended with your agreement to meet him for dinner—now he had to plan the perfect evening.

Phasma had been the one to suggest this place when she found him spiraling in his office with about a million different restaurant reviews open on his computer. It’s beautiful, decorated with crisp white furnishings and sparkling chrome lights. The outer wall is made entirely of large panels of glass, reflecting the bustling city outside in shiny streaks of color.

“Are those . . . paparazzi?” you ask skeptically, looking through the windows; the foyer is filled with excited whispers as the other guests notice the minor commotion outside, and Hux’s eyes snap to the street. He can see them, maybe three or four of the vultures, the flashes on their cameras creating tiny pinpricks of light as they snap their pictures. “I wonder who they’re here for,” you say, looking around the lobby again before peering into the dining area of the restaurant, searching for any familiar, famous face.

“Oh god,” Hux shudders involuntarily, grabbing you by the shoulders and pulling you away from the windows, shielding you from the view of the street with his own body. _Of course_ they would find him again, tonight of all nights. Months of relative freedom, of anonymity, and it's tonight that they suddenly reappear, ready to torment him.

He's still holding onto you, holding you so close that he can smell your shampoo, feel the heat of your body permeate the space between you, but he’s too preoccupied to enjoy it, trying instead to catch the attention of anyone who could fix this. All it takes is a sharp glance at the host, and suddenly he’s on the move, whispering to one of the staff and they push through the crowd and out the doors to take care of the problem.

“I sincerely apologize, sir,” a man in an expensive suit approaches soon after, the restaurant manager maybe, wringing his hands and looking repentant, “I can show you to your table right away.” He sets off through the waiting crowd, a few of its members turning to look at Hux with incisive eyes, whispering to their companions in hushed tones, trying to figure out who he is and why those people were trying to snap a photo. Hux ignores them, turning his attention back to you, offering his arm. You take it, after some hesitation, and there’s a slight scowl on your face as you try to understand what’s just happened, even though you don’t have all the pieces.

You’re led to a table towards the back of the restaurant—a relatively private space away from any windows or other guests, and Hux thanks the man with a nod and the discreet passage of crisp bill into the his waiting hand. Your face is still stormy as you take your seat, and Hux is nervous again for all the wrong reasons.

“You told me you work for the First Order,” you say as soon as he joins you at the table, trying to appear nonchalant—but he can read the worry in your face, hear the tremble in your voice as you speak the next words, “what exactly do you do?”

Hux winces, avoiding your gaze. He needs to learn how to talk to you, and fast. He hadn’t lied to you, not intentionally, but he hadn’t forced the conversation either. For most people, work was only one facet of their lives, but for Hux, it was everything. He had made the First Order, shaped it through great personal sacrifice; for him, work had always come first. He had never believed that anything could come into his life that would matter more. Until he met you.

He meets your gaze across the table, taking you in; even when you’re serious you make him feel gentle, make his blood thrum through his veins and his mouth go dry. No more secrets. He’ll tell you everything.

“I’m the CEO,” he says it with more confidence than he feels, trying to force the casual tone typical for first dates, but it still comes out weighted.

“Oh my god,” you suck in a breath, turning away from him and gripping the edge of the table, holding yourself steady.

“Are you upset?” He can't be sure just by the way you look, but you won't meet his eyes, and there’s no trace of a smile on your face now.

“I’m . . . surprised,” you finally speak after a pregnant pause, “when were you going to mention that?”

“It’s not something that comes up in casual conversation,” it’s a poor excuse, but it’s the only one he has; he doesn’t have the words to explain how much he wanted you to like him, how willing he was to tailor himself into something you would love for as long as he could manage.

“I mean, I'd like to know what I’m getting into, especially if things like that-" you nod your head towards the lobby, "-are going to happen." Your voice is a little breathless, a slight laugh punctuating your words. He watches as you let go of the edge of the table, sliding your hand across the pristine white tablecloth, reaching for him.

He's on fire—glowing even, maybe—watching you, in real time, choose to be with him. That's never happened before, with anyone.

“I’m sorry,” he says, meeting you halfway, placing his hand over yours and enjoying the warmth, “I should have told you. Can you forgive me?”

“Yes, but no more secrets,” you state firmly, with a mock frown that doesn't touch the mischief in your eyes, “I like you, Armitage, but you can’t keep things from me.”

“Of course, it won’t happen again,” he responds, his mind is elsewhere, though, as he plays those words on repeat, committing the sound to memory. You _like_ him. You like _him_.

“So there’s nothing else you want to tell me?” you ask, the question sprinkled with humor and you widen your eyes with mock astonishment, “Oh god, you’re not married or anything, right?”

“Would that be a deal breaker?” he asks, and your mock surprise turns real before you catch on. You’re only able to hold back your laughter for a moment before it bursts out of you—loud and bright and confident—and the sound of it fills the room with light.

The sun is setting over Central Park, the last rays reaching through the thready wisps of clouds that paint the sky, coating them in a golden glow. It's a cool evening in the fading light of New York City, a cool night made warmer by the feeling of your hand in his, the sparks that travel to his heart every time he feels your arm brush against him as you walk among the trees with the slow, comfortable pace of people who have nowhere they'd rather be.

"What are you thinking about?" Your voice is a whisper in the growing darkness, the streetlights along the path flickering on, casting glowing pools along the ground.

"Nothing," Hux responds, surprised to find that it's true. He's not thinking about work, not thinking about Ren or Snoke, or any of the million tasks he'll need to complete tomorrow. He's at peace, being here with you. Your presence has put a pause on everything in his life that he has yet to figure out. "What about you?"

"I'm thinking," you say, pulling him gently to a stop, "that I'd like it if you kissed me, Armitage."

Hux is sure that he's going to combust. He finds himself searching the area around you, looking for prying eyes. There's no one; it's just the two of you in your own private orbit. Still, he can’t help but feel tense; he’s not used to showing affection at all, let alone in public. 

You move in closer, brushing the tips of your fingers over up his arm, watching as they climb higher and higher until he can feel the soft press of your skin against his cheek.

"Please?" you ask him again, and who is he to deny you? He cups your face with his hands, thumbs resting on the edges of your smile before he presses a gentle kiss against your lips.

It's like holding a star, kissing you—Hux can hardly process the feeling, but he doesn't need to understand it to relish the way your body presses against his, or the strength of your arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you pull him closer, deepening the kiss and slipping your tongue against his own.

Out of all the stars in the night sky, the sun and the moon and the distant planets, in the farthest reaches in the galaxy, Hux is sure that there is no light in the known universe that shines as brightly as you.


	27. Someone Else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi so i had a request idea. Hux being married to some woman bc he had to for propaganda or whatever and reader (who works closely with hux) is with them both and pryde after a meeting or at a gala, and in discussion the wife and pryde are speaking highly of brendol. The reader essentially realises hux’s wife supports and agrees with the abuse that hux has endured and so the reader takes him for a private discussion to reassure and comfort him, show that he has someone on his side. Thank you xx
> 
> Ahhh, writing this made me so sad, anon, you have no idea. But also, I loved it and I couldn’t stop 😰 Thank you for the request, I hope you enjoy! (Also I modified the prompt just a little bit and I hope you don’t mind)
> 
> Requests are closed ✨
> 
> Hux x Reader (no pronouns)
> 
> AN: So I’m headed on a little road trip with my sister today, and as soon as I get back, I’ll be packing up and moving, and then immediately starting work at my new school 😱 I’m not sure how this will affect my writing schedule etc, but don’t be too surprised if I’m MIA for the next week or so. I promise I’ll get back to my requests ASAP 💖 love you all 🥰🥰🥰
> 
> Warnings: ANGST, infidelity, language, not a happy ending really 🙁

Even in your most creative thoughts, it’s hard to imagine a more pathetic situation than this one. You’ve been in love with General Hux, your boss, for as long as you can remember, too cowardly to tell him how you feel. And now you’ve been forced to plan, and attend, his fucking wedding. To someone else.

You fidgeted through the whole thing: the dinner, the reception, the ceremony. Spent the whole time chewing your lip to pieces with your eyes fixed on the general, waiting for him to say _something_ , to stop this. You could imagine how it would happen perfectly—a vision that sustained you through the whole event.

It would happen during the vows; he'd begin reading the words—the ones that you prepared for him, words about _fidelity_ and _commitment_ but completely void of love—and then he'd falter, pause, and his eyes would find you in the back of the crowd. The audience would fill with whispers, but you wouldn't notice at all, wouldn't hear any of it because he'd be looking at _you_ , he'd see you looking so beautiful in the attire you chose especially for this moment and he'd realize that he’d been blind this whole time, and now . . .

The vision always got a little fuzzy there, but it was only because you couldn't wait for your favorite part: the one where he kissed you in front of all those people, a kiss so dramatic and consuming that everyone would know that it was you he loved. That it had _always_ been you.

It didn't happen that way. No matter how deeply you tried to immerse yourself in a daydream, you couldn't miss the moment your general and his betrothed were pronounced man and wife, and the commitment was sealed with a kiss. The light smattering of applause must have been loud enough to hide the sound of your heart shattering, because no one else seemed to notice.

It’s long over now. You’re alone in the reception area, halfheartedly ripping the silk tablecloths from where they lay before balling them up and throwing them into a messy pile. You don’t have to do it, someone will be coming along to clean up eventually, but you’d like to keep busy. If you go back to your quarters, you’ll have to be alone with your thoughts.

Hux announces his presence with a slight cough that still manages to startle you, and when you turn to face him your heart breaks all over again. He looks very handsome in the uniform he wears, one made especially for this occasion—regal but not too flashy—and your breath catches in your lungs despite your mind's insistence that you're no longer allowed such feelings.

“I thought I’d find you in here, Lieutenant,” he says to break the silence, and you nod as you feel your cheeks grow warm.

“Congratulations, General,” you reply, and you almost manage to sound like you mean it, “or should I call you your highness now?”

He gives you the slightest of smirks, just a hint of a smile in response to your attempt at humor, but you can tell what he’s thinking. _Emperor Hux_ —a title made no less impressive when you consider that it was gained through marriage. It’s what he’s always wanted; you can be happy for him.

“General is still appropriate,” he replies, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet with pride, “I’m still your commanding officer.”

“Of course, sir,” you reply, and then, because you can’t avoid the subject any longer, "is Bristol getting ready for your departure?" It's the one concession you’ve allowed yourself—refusing to use her title whenever she isn't around. Normally you’d be smug about it, like somehow you were getting back at her, but now it just leaves you feeling empty.

“She's actually entertaining the allegiant general at the moment, in my quarters,” he replies with feigned indifference, even though you know how he feels about Pryde, “he knows her father, apparently they used to be in acquaintance.” You purse your lips in response; there’s really no need for words. It doesn't surprise you that _they_ would get along.

You had wanted to like Bristol. Before you ever met her, you had been determined to like her, hoped desperately that the general had found someone kind and loving and devoted, because he deserved happiness and acceptance even if you weren't the one giving it to him.

Whatever you were hoping for, Bristol is . . . something else. She's beautiful, certainly, and intimidating and determined—all things you would expect from the future empress of her own star system. You've also found her to be unnecessarily cruel and demanding, towards you at least, and anyone else she thought she could look down on.

Not that it matters—you're not the one married to her. And while she might not be affectionate towards the general, she had also never been openly antagonistic. Plenty of people lived through loveless marriages. The general must have taken this into account and decided that it was a worthwhile sacrifice.

They're a handsome couple. A smart couple. And soon enough, the hurt and the wanting would fade and you would be able to move on with your life. He'd just have to stop looking so nice in his uniform first.

"There's something else I need, lieutenant," he says, pulling you from your thoughts, "before I leave. I have some last minute notes, some reminders I forgot to mention before, for my absence." You can’t help but purse your lips again, this time to hide a smile of your own. He's been more nervous about his trip back to the Alfospar System than he had ever been for the wedding, and you can’t really blame him. Two weeks is a long time for someone like him to be away from their work. 

"I know I told you there'd be no talk of work today,” he continues, “but if you wouldn't mind-"

"Please, general, of course I'll take the notes," you interrupt with a smile, "I never believed that you could resist talking about work for a whole day."

You shouldn't tease him like this; you have to stop teasing him at all, because he tries not to smile again, and your pulse starts to race. Whenever he makes that stupid face, all you can think about is peppering his cheeks with kisses, teasing him again until he really _would_ smile and you could bask in the happiness that you created. He only has to hide his smiles when he’s around you, and you’re stupid enough to think that means something. 

"They're in my quarters," he waits for you to drop the table cloth you'd been worrying in your hands throughout the conversation, and then you follow him through the dark and quiet corridors. Neither of you speak—you've spent too much time together to find the silence uncomfortable. Unfortunately, that means that you can hear every word coming from the open door to the general's quarters as soon as you approach.

Maybe they think they're being quiet, or maybe their voices carry, or maybe neither of them mind at all that anyone could wander right outside the door, listening to every word of what should be a private conversation.

"You could have done worse, dear, I'll give you that at least," it's Pryde's voice, his words traveling down the hallway; it’s like he's right next to you, like these are words that you're meant to hear, too, and your heart clenches in your chest because you know that's not the case.

"How exactly could I have done worse, general?" That's Bristol speaking, obviously, her tone all-too familiar, like she's suffering from a headache and she believes you're the cause. You have to stop this conversation now, before one of them says something that can't be unheard. You're about to take the first step, ready to announce your presence with some inane comment that would make Bristol roll her eyes and would hopefully make Pryde swallow whatever insult was about to leave his mouth. You're about to take the first step when Hux stops you with a hand on your shoulder and a look in his eyes that puts an end to any argument.

You hope to the gods that Pryde will, by some miracle, say something nice. Or at least, something not overtly mean. You listen and you wait, brimming with foolish hope, your eyes fastened on the general, watching the way his jaw tightens as he holds his breath, waiting for Pryde to respond.

"You know," he begins, and you can already hear the mirth, already know that his next words are going to be painful and you won't be able to protect the general from them, "I'm not actually sure." There's a slight pause and then the room is filled with their bright, callous laughter, laughter that spills out of the open door and floods the hallway so completely that you feel you might suffocate in it.

"I mean honestly, I don't think I've ever met a man so weak-willed," Bristol speaks again, and she's breathless from laughter, "he is absolutely _spineless_ -"

" _Thin as a slip of paper and just as useless_ ," Pryde interrupts,"that's what his father used to say about him."

Bristol laughs again—just a short bark this time—before she responds, "Well, he's certainly no Brendol."

"You'd have thought his father could have beaten him into shape, but . . ." they laugh again—there’s no mistaking General Pryde’s true meaning—and General Hux has heard enough. Before you can even process everything they’ve said, he's turned on his heel, walking back the way you came.

General Hux always walks fast—because he always has places to be, he says—but you have to jog to catch up to him this time, and even then you lag behind. You stumble after him in your dress shoes, cursing the way they pinch your feet before giving up and ripping them off, pursuing him around the corner.

He goes to his office, probably because there's nowhere else for him to go, and you stop just inside the doorway, trying to catch your breath. He busies himself, or tries to, fidgeting with the sparse materials on his desk—intermittently picking up his data pad, dropping it again, running a coarse hand through his hair, then gripping the back of his chair with white-knuckled hands. It strikes you, in this moment, that you've never seen the general cry before. It makes sense—there's never really been a reason for it, but you wish he would cry now, as you feel your own eyes sting with tears, because, somehow, seeing him like this is so much worse.

“General,” your voice is too timid when you speak, and you clear your throat, willing away the tightness that grows steadily as you hold back your tears. He doesn’t look up.

You go to him, take both of his hands in your own, trying to still him, trying to hide the fact that you're shaking too. In all your time together, you've never seen him act this way. It frightens you.

"I'm sorry." It's not enough, but it's all you have to offer: a fitting metaphor for your relationship. He doesn't respond, won't even look at you with those ice green eyes. "They're wrong about you, sir." You can hardly believe that you have to say it out loud. How could he not see what you saw?

"No, lieutenant," he's dejected in his response, almost hopeless, "I don't think they are." For a moment, it feels like your heart might explode with anger, an all-encompassing anger that fills you whenever you think of Brendol Hux. The general never told you much about his relationship with his father, but you’ve put together some of the pieces. Even after all this time—after all his success—he still falls into the traps set for him by that man. Still finds it so easy to believe that he is worthless despite all the evidence to the contrary.

"How can you say that?" You cup his chin in your hand on instinct, gentle but insistent, forcing him to look you in the eyes. If you weren't so distracted by the conversation at hand, you might have realized that this was the first time you'd ever laid a hand on his bare skin, skin that’s soft and cool beneath your fingers, might have better registered the electricity setting your palm alight at the contact, might have noticed the slight flush that materialized over the general's cheeks in response to your touch. But the anger still clouds your senses, and you don’t notice any of it. "Who knows you better, general? Me or them?"

You've caught him now. You feel the delicate flex of his jaw muscles shift, as he opens his mouth, prepared to argue with you, and then freeze when he realizes that he has nothing to say.

"You are many things, sir, but spineless is not one of them," you take advantage of his silence, speaking faster, trying to get the words out as quickly as possible so that he won't have to spend another moment in this pain. "I don't think I've ever met anyone braver, or more determined, or more suited to lead . . ." You trail off there, your face growing warm. The nature of your position, your hand on his jaw, has drawn you closer, his face wandering unthinkingly towards yours, and you could count his eyelashes from this distance, number each and every one of his freckles if he'd just stay this close.

"Lieutenant-" General Hux doesn't try to pull away, but there's some distance in his tone. You know what he's thinking. You’re thinking it, too, of course. But you’ve never gotten this close before. 

"Can I kiss you, sir?" You shouldn't, but you have to. If he'll let you. If he wants you to.

"Why?" You feel the whispered question brush up against your cheeks, and despite everything else, you know that this is _your_ moment.

"I just want you to know what it's like," you say, "to feel loved." You wait, take the opportunity to breathe him in, share the same air—something you've done for years but never like this, never close enough to feel the heat of it—the tip of your nose just barely brushing against his as he nods, and he’s shaking a little.

It's not the kiss you had envisioned, as you cup his face in both your hands and pull him closer. You move deliberately, let him watch until he goes cross-eyed and then his eyes fall closed, and your lips meet his, so soft it's more the ghost of a kiss than anything. You wait for him there, wait for him to reciprocate the affection you give him, and he does, pressing his mouth against yours with a tentative kind of tenderness. It's not the kiss you had imagined—it's everything.

You move together, slow and gentle, two familiar people learning each other in an entirely new way, and it's intoxicating—being held by him, feeling the way his hands trail your spine, the way the pad of his thumb traces your jaw. It would be perfect, if he didn't belong to someone else.

"What are we going to do now?" He pulls away just long enough to whisper the question and you don’t let yourself respond, kissing him again while you still can. You don’t want to admit it just yet, but you have no idea what you’re going to do. You haven’t got a clue.


	28. Hux Fluff Alphabet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody! Sorry I've been so quiet lately, moving and getting ready for school has been pretty time consuming 🙃 I've been posting some head-canons about Hux and Kylo on my tumblr for the past few weeks, and you can go check those out if you'd like, or I have these here for you!

**A = Attractive (What do they find attractive about the other?)**

Hux is a sucker for a nice smile. It’s one of the things he first noticed about you—he wasn’t used to seeing anyone smile around him. He catches himself staring at you from across the bridge, your lips quirking up at the corners whenever you notice, and it still makes his heart stop. Every. Single. Time.

**B = Baby (Do they want a family? Why/Why not?)**

Not actively. Neither of your lifestyles are very conducive to a child. He doesn’t mind children though, and sometimes—on the rare occasion that he lets his mind wander—he wonders what it would be like to raise a child of his own.

**C = Cuddle (How do they cuddle?)**

Hux rarely initiates physical contact with you—it’s just not something he’s really comfortable with. However, he will give non-verbal queues, little changes in his position or demeanor to let you know that he wants attention.

If you’re sitting together on the couch or laying next to each other in bed, he’ll shift slightly, open up space so that you can move in closer. His favorite position for cuddling is when you lay your head on his chest and he’ll wrap an arm around your waist. He likes to feel you so solidly against him—it helps remind him that you’re real, that you’re there, that you love him.

**D = Dates (What are dates with them like?)**

Hux doesn’t have much time for dates, so they’re few and far between. When he gets the chance, he likes to take you planet-side—for fine dining, shows, whatever you’d like. He just wants to spoil you, because you deserve it 🥰

**E = Everything (You are my ____ (e.g. my life, my world…))**

For Hux, you are his serenity. Whenever you’re with him, all the worry, all the panic, it stops. Being with you is like the first breath of air after diving in deep and turbulent waters.

**F = Feelings (When did they know they were in love?)**

Any relationship with Hux moves slowly. He wouldn’t want to be too forward, and this is the first time he’s been with someone this way. It’s the little things that clue him in to how he really feels about you—like how, no matter how many times it’s happened, his heart still stutters every time you kiss him, how happy you are to see his rare smiles, how understanding you are of his needs.

The first time you tell him you love him, he’s gripped with anxiety. He’s only heard those words one, maybe two times in his life, and he’s never said them himself.

You seem to understand what he’s feeling, even in his silence, nuzzling your head closer to his chest and whispering the words, “it’s okay if you can’t say it yet—I don’t mind waiting,” and he wants to cry, can’t process how it feels to be _known_ by you. He tells you he loves you, then and there. He thinks he always has.

**G = Gentle (Are they gentle? If so, how?)**

YES! Yes, yes, yes a million times yes, _especially_ at the beginning of your relationship. Hux treats you like you’re made of glass, or smoke, like if he’s not careful you might disappear. His kisses are slow and sensual, his touches are feather-light. Later on, he’s a little less nervous about it. He just can’t stand the idea of hurting you, on accident or not. 

**H = Hands (How do they like to hold hands?)**

Hux holds your hands with purpose. He’s almost always working, so when he takes time to appreciate that little bit of intimacy, it’s all he lets himself focus on. He’ll hold both of your hands in his, pulling them close to his chest to shrink the space between you so he can stare into your eyes, occasionally brushing gentle kisses along your knuckles.

**I = Impression (What was their first impression?)**

Hux appreciates hard work. The first time he truly _noticed_ you, it was because he recognized your drive and determination, your _hunger_ for success. Later he comes to appreciate all your other wonderful qualities, but it’s your loyalty that stays with him whenever he’s gripped with fear—the unwelcome thoughts that some times intrude, thoughts that you might leave him.

**J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous?)**

Short answer: yes. Longer answer: All. The. Time. He just has such a hard time believing that you _like_ him. And he _has_ to believe that everyone wants you—after all, why wouldn’t they?

He gets a little mopey when he thinks you might have feelings for someone else, a little standoffish, and he needs a lot of reassurance. Luckily, you’re more than happy to show him that he’s the only one for you 😘

**K = Kiss (How do they kiss? Who initiated the first kiss?)**

Hux’s kisses always start slow. He’ll cup his hand around your neck, hold you close, admiring you for a moment before he presses his lips to yours softly.

He always begins gently, but once he’s started, it’s hard for him to stop. Sometimes you’ll find yourself pulling away from him with no way to tell how much time has passed, his hair ruffed up and falling into his face and your uniform in disarray from his wandering hands.

**L = Love (Who says ‘I love you’ first?)**

You, probably. Hux isn’t very good at expressing how he feels, and more likely than not, he thinks the risk is too great unless he’s absolutely certain that you feel the same.

Your palms are sweating when it happens, your hands clammy from being in such close proximity with him again. Just the two of you.

He’s babbling on about some plans or to-do list and your heart _hurts,_ a physical, blinding pain because you’ve wanted him for _so_ long and now you’re so close.

He stops mid-sentence when you place your hand over his, and the look you give him speaks volumes, speaks _oceans_ but he still can’t help but feel surprised when you lean over and press a tentative kiss to the side of his mouth.

He’s silent in the moments after, a hard set to his brow and you’re on fire with embarrassment. You turn to go, ready to run as far as you can, knowing that there’s no place far enough away to escape your shame. You’re out of your chair before he takes you by the hand, pulls you gently to your seat and then whispers, “ _please, do that again._ ”

**M = Memory (What’s their favourite memory together?)**

The first time you shared a bed together. He can’t remember ever sleeping so well as he did that first night.

**N = Nickel (Do they spoil? Do they buy the person they love everything?)**

Hux absolutely spoils, but he can be shy about it. You’ll find little gifts and trinkets waiting for you when you go to visit him in his quarters, and he’ll look away as you open them, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye to catch your soft smile. He’ll blush and stammer—talking about how he saw it and thought of you, how he can pick out something else if you don’t like it. He only goes silent once you press a soft kiss to his unsuspecting lips, whispering about how much you love your gift.

**O = Orange (What colour reminds them of their other half?)**

I would say calming colors, like blues or greens or maybe even yellow on certain days. Anything that reminds him of living things, and life beyond the _Finalizer_.

**P = Pet names (What pet names do they use?)**

I think if he were _really_ close to someone, he would use some pretty classic terms of endearment, like love, or darling. He prefers it when his SO calls him by name—he’s heard it so rarely in his life, and you say it with so much love that he can scarcely believe it, ~~but I do think calling him~~ _ ~~general~~_ ~~or~~ _ ~~sir~~_ ~~in a playful tone is an easy way to get him going 😬~~

**Q = Quaint (What is their favourite non-modern thing?)**

Hux loves to steam and press his own uniforms. It’s calming for him, and allows him to start his day with a little bit of order. He’ll put them on while they’re still warm, enjoying the smell of soap and the lingering heat.

**R = Rainy Day (What do they like to do on a rainy day?)**

He doesn’t spend that much time planet-side, but rainy days are very contemplative for Hux. They remind him a lot of his childhood, and he’ll find himself staring out the window, lost in thought. He appreciates it when you’re there for him, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him away from those reminders of his past and back into the present with a soft hug and a cup of tea.

**S = Sad (How do they cheer themselves/others up?)**

Hux doesn’t have a lot of time to feel sad, and he’s gotten really good at burying his emotions after everything that he’s been through.

Sometimes, though, those feelings bubble to the surface without warning. When he needs comfort, he’ll go and find Millie for a quick, soothing snuggle. If he can’t go all the way back to his quarters, he’ll replay memories of her as a kitten over in his mind.

If you’re feeling down, Hux will make sure that he’s there for you. He’s a problem-solver, he likes to fix things, but if you ask him to just listen, he’ll do it. He’ll let you rest your head on his shoulder as he sits silently and your tears will drip down into the fabric of his uniform and it just feels _good_ to be with him. You feel lighter when you’re together.

**T = Talking (What do they like to talk about?)**

Hux tends to think out loud—especially when he’s in a place where he feels safe. You first notice him mumbling under his breath early on in your relationship, when you’re working together late at night, whispers about tasks he has to finish or reminders for himself. As time goes on, he’ll speak of more personal things—his wants for the future, little things that happened to him during the day that he thinks you might find funny.

He’s a very good listener, though. If you need to vent on a bad day or if there’s something you’re really excited about, he’ll be with you, all of his attention focused on whatever it is you have to say. He doesn’t speak much during these conversations, but you cherish them. It’s one of the ways he shows you that he cares.

**U = Unencumbered (What helps them relax?)**

Anything that takes his mind off work. Hux likes tasks that he can do without much thought, like laundry or washing dishes. If he’s feeling really stressed, sometimes he’ll draw a bath and ask you to join him, the heat of the water seeping into his aching muscles, the gentle trace of your fingers reminding him that, even with all the opposition in his life, there’s someone on his side.

**V = Vaunt (What do they like to show off? What are they proud of?)**

Hux likes to let his actions speak for himself. He’s spent so much time surrounded by people who have never believed in his abilities, and showing off feels pathetic in that frame of mind. That being said, he is proud of his intellect and his achievements. He’s worked very hard to earn the title he possesses, and he _knows_ that he’s smarter than most of the people he’s surrounded by.

**W = Wedding (When, how, where do they propose?)**

This man loves to plan. He’s not about to ask such an important question just _anywhere,_ and he’s certainly not going to do it on the _Finalizer_. He does his research—looks for a planet that’s beautiful, safe, and _private_.

He writes out the perfect words, recites them to himself over and over again in the weeks before (whether or not he remembers them in the moment is an entirely different story).

You say yes, of course. He could have asked you anywhere, at anytime, without any planning. You just want to be with him.

**X = Xylophone (What’s their song?)**

I don’t think Hux listens to a lot of music—he finds it distracting when he’s trying to work, and he’s almost _always_ trying to work. That being said, here are some songs that remind me of him:

_Work Song_ by Hozier

_Gun Song_ by The Lumineers

_Shrike_ by Hozier

_False God_ by Taylor Swift

**Y = Yes (Do they ever think of getting married/proposing?)**

Before he met you, Hux was sure that he’d _never_ get married. He’d tell Phasma that he didn’t have time for an SO, that a relationship would be a liability, that he was married to the Order, and a million other reasons he didn’t want it.

Once your together, though, he thinks about it all the time. You’ll be sitting at your station, or in his quarters sipping caff in the mornings, or you’ll reach for his hand late at night while you’re both working, and suddenly he’s overcome with the feeling that he wants to be like this forever. He needs you to be _his_ in every way imaginable. And once he starts thinking about it, he doesn’t stop.

**Z = Zebra (If they wanted a pet, what would they get?)**

I think Millicent is the only pet he needs!


	29. His Pilot (Bonus Drabble 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Pleeeeeease more pilot x hux from hux’s point of view. Last one made me weak 
> 
> Absolutely friend! Glad you liked it so much!
> 
> Requests are closed ✨ 
> 
> Armitage Hux x Pilot! Reader 
> 
> Warnings: Language!

"I came looking for you because. . . because I wanted to make sure that you were alright."

For the first time in a long time, General Hux finds himself rendered speechless. Not just speechless, but thoughtless, his mind a complete void as he tries to comprehend the words that just left your mouth.

His body stays frozen, even as his mind recovers from the shock. It's a fear response, he knows, the space between flight or fight where he's nothing but bared teeth and snap judgements. But despite the pounding of his heart, the way every muscle in his body comes to attention, ready to lash out, attack, push you away—he knows that when you say that you're worried about him, you mean it. And that makes you dangerous.

But it also makes you rare, and precious, and in desperate need of protection. He’d like to protect you, especially when he sees you like this—the way that everything you're feeling is on display as you fidget and stare, like you're holding your heart in your trembling hands. He needs to give you something in return—some kind of offering to show that he sees what you've given him and he doesn't take it lightly.

"Oh." It's the only word that he can manage, despite the number of things he'd like to say, all crowding in his throat trying to force their way out. Something like _thank you_ or _I need you_ , or _I haven’t been okay in a long, long time_. But he's powerless in this too, powerless like he was on Arkanis.

He's out of time—you're moving towards the door before he can say anything else, puncturing the silence with a soft whisper, telling him that you’re leaving, and that you won’t be back. If you leave now, he'll never have another chance.

"Please, wait," he finally manages, and you stop, looking like you'd rather be anywhere else. He can't see you like this and say what he's feeling. His heartbeat pounds through his ears as he stands from his desk, turning his back to you—the only way he can truly be vulnerable. You move silently across his office, but he can feel you approach, already addicted to your proximity. How can one person make him so at peace and so panicked at the same time? How can he need to be so close to you and know everything would be easier if you disappeared?

"I'm not used to anyone showing concern for me," he says, talking to the wall, ignoring the pressure of your eyes. His fingers curl into fists, tight enough to hurt, and he lets the pain bring him focus. You probably find him pathetic. And you'd be right to think that way. When he looks at you, though, he sees no judgement. Just a firm determination, and your hand bridging the gap before brushing over the fabric of his uniform, and invisible touch, so light he’s hardly able to feel it. But everything about you is so warm, this included, like he's brushing his fingers over a candle flame. He can already feel his anxieties fading as you speak, everything lost in the golden honey of your voice, "There's a heavy weight on your shoulders, general. You shouldn't be expected to carry it on your own."

Tears prick the corners of his eyes, but he looks down, away from you so you won't see. It's no use, he can't hide from you, not when you watch him so closely, turning his face towards yours and pulling him closer.

It's ridiculous—and completely inappropriate considering the situation—but for a moment he thinks you might kiss him, and, _gods_ , he'd like that. Not just because it might distract him from the stinging in his eyes, allow him for a moment to not feel so _fucking_ sad, but because he feels close to you. He'd like to be closer.

You don't kiss him, of course, pulling him into an embrace, and despite his previous thinking, this might actually be too close. His breath hitches, and he can feel the tears he's been holding back begin to spill over his cheeks, already wetting the shoulder of your uniform.

There's no way for him to process this. No way for him to stay sheltered from the pain of your concern without pulling away from the tenderness of this embrace. So he stays. And he cries. And he holds you tighter.

He'd like to stay this way, wrapped up in you like a blanket, vulnerable but safe, but he knows it's already been too long, and men like him can't afford lapses like this, no matter how brief. He pulls out of your grasp with a soft cough, dropping his arms reluctantly as you do the same. His face is wet, the moist remnants of his tears not yet dry on his cheeks, but he'll wait to brush them away when you can't see.

“Um, is there anything else you needed, General?” you ask the question so formally, and he almost smiles in response. He keeps his voice even when he responds, equally formal, like it's some kind of joke between you. "No, you're dismissed."

You walk away, almost to the door before Hux gathers the courage to say the words he’s wanted to say from the very beginning. "Thank you," he manages, finally, and even though they're awkward and heavy, he still hears the smile in your voice, when you respond," of, course, sir. Any time." He hopes you mean it. He needs you to mean it. And after everything that's happened, he thinks you do.


	30. Study Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay,, but for comedic purposes I need kylo and phasma being hux's besties and finding out about him having a crush on someone idk and them just trying to make them be together?? Ik it doesn't fit with star wars Canon but I'm mad at it rn so what's Canon? / Could we get college AU Hux and the reader having a steamy make out in the library 🥵
> 
> Hey guys! Sorry I've been MIA lately; school has been pretty crazy for me lately and I've had very little time to write. On top of that, I've been focusing on my new fics instead of requests, and I've been having all the normal issues with self-doubt multiplied by 1000 😂 
> 
> This week I decided to write a few drabbles on my tumblr (starlightsearches) as a kind of distraction from the US elections, and these two requests ended up being long enough that I thought I would post them here too! Hope everyone is doing well, and please know that there are more stories to come!

Phasma kicks his chair for the third time that night, and Hux looks at her, glaring. It’s annoyed him every time, but it annoys him even more that she’s had to; he should have more self-control than this.

“Stop staring,” she says under her breath, “it’s freaking me out.” Hux risks a glance in your direction, wondering if you’ve noticed this interaction but you stay blissfully unaware, laughing again at something _Mitaka’s_ said to you, and Hux’s frown deepens.

“I’m not doing it on purpose,” he says bitingly, but she only smirks at him.

Ren plops down in the seat next to him, returning from his third trip through the line, his plate stacked high with an appalling amount of food. “Was he staring again?”

Phasma nods, and Hux flushes red, glaring at the both of them, “why do I even bother sitting with you when I get this kind of abuse?” Both of them snicker, and Hux rolls his eyes.

“Well,” Ren says, leaning over him and gesturing in your direction with his fork, “you could always go sit over there.” He raises his eyebrows to emphasize his point, and Phasma laughs loud enough to draw attention from some of the nearby tables. Hux forces Ren’s arm down, hoping no one will notice the table he had been pointing to.

“Honestly, Hux,” Ren pulls his hand back, stabbing a spear of broccoli off his plate, “I don’t see why you can’t just go over there and talk to her.”

“Really? _You_ can’t understand why that’s not possible?” He feels sick just thinking about it, walking through the motions in his head. There was very little that frightened Hux, but letting himself even _think_ about speaking to you in any context beyond academic left his knees weak, and Ren had already witnessed plenty of failed interactions to know this.

“Oh, right,” he shrugs his shoulders and takes a bite of a doughnut before taking a long drink of coke without swallowing first. Hux rolls his eyes.

“Well,” Phasma slams her palms to the table, before standing, “you might not be able to talk to her, but I can.” She’s out of her seat before Hux can even process her words, working her way through the crowded dining hall over to your table.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Hux slams his head to the table before turning to face Ren, his back towards you and the inevitable train-wreck. “What are they saying?”

Ren peers over the crowd in your direction, squinting, “I don’t know, but whatever Phasma’s telling her, she’s definitely in to it.”

“Really?” Hux sits up a little, chancing a glance your way.

“Definitely,” Ren nods sagely. As uncanny as it could be, Hux trusted Ren’s intuition on this kind of thing—he had a strange knack for reading people.

Emboldened by Ren’s verdict, Hux turns to watch the rest of the conversation unfold. Phasma is animated, as she leans over the table you’re sitting at with your friends, and you’re smiling up at her, a faint trace of laughter on your lips.

Phasma points to him as she speaks, and you follow the line of her arm, your eyes landing on him and they stay there, curious. Hux can feel his ears grow warm, and he resists the urge to bury his face in his arms, instead offering a half-hearted wave. You smile in earnest.

“ _Shit_ ,” Hux says, looking down at the table with laser-like focus, “they’re coming this way.”

“Then I’ll take that as my cue to leave,” Ren gathers his now-empty tray, kicking the chair back under the table.

“Wait,” Hux cries, his heart threatening to leap right out of his chest, “what am I even supposed to say to her?” 

“Just don’t be weird,” he says without a backwards glance, and Hux is left at the table alone.

“Hey, Armitage,” he recognizes your voice, and his heart stutters as if it’s threatening to fail completely. With an incredible amount of effort, he forces himself to turn around. You’re by yourself, standing at the edge of the table. Phasma is nowhere to be found.

“Hey,” he replies, cringing inwardly. He had meant to sound cool and aloof, but the word comes out glacial, and your smile fractures the tiniest bit. Out of the corner of his eye, Hux finds Phasma and Ren watching him from the door, and Ren holds his face in both hands, shaking his head. This is not going well.

“Uh, I just came over here because Phasma said you had a question about the project for Professor Snoke’s class, but if now’s not a good time . . .” the rest of your sentence drifts off as you pull your bottom lip between your teeth and Hux feels like he’s about to suffer from a fucking aneurysm.

“It isn’t a good time, actually,” he says, and you look as if he’s slapped you; even from the other end of the dining hall he can see Ren losing his mind, “but I was wondering, I mean—if you’re not busy tomorrow, of course—if you don’t already have plans-”

“Maybe we could go over it in the library?” you offer, tentative, and Hux is overcome with relief.

“7 o’ clock?” He asks, and you nod, bouncing on the balls of your feet.

“It’s a date,” you agree, waving good bye as you walk back to your table, and Hux leans back in his chair, dumbfounded. He’s got a _date_.

* * *

Hux tries to focus on the work in front of him, but he’s finding it increasingly difficult as the night goes on—all of his attention is zeroed in on his left knee. Or, more specifically, where your leg rests against his left knee under the library table.

He wonders, absentmindedly, how many nerve endings there are underneath that small area of skin, and how such innocuous contact could cause such an overwhelming sensation. It’s hard for him to find the words to describe it—it almost feels like he’s submerged his leg in an ice-bath, and now he’s sitting warm by a fire. and then multiplied by a thousand. The numb warmth clings to his skin under the layers of clothing, growing stronger every time you move against him.

You shift again as you lean back in your chair, stretching your arms above your head and stifling a yawn. You’ve already been here for hours together, and discussing his non-existent questions for Professor Snoke’s class hadn’t taken much time. But you told him that you had some more studying to do, and he was welcome to stay if he’d like. And now it’s almost midnight and he’d spent most of his time here wondering what you sound like when you moan.

Hux presses the heels of his hands against his eyelids, annoyed with himself, irritated that he had let himself get his hopes up. Beyond your use of the word date and the almost-negligible press of your leg against his, you had given him no indication that you were interested in him in that way. He should have known better.

A bored voice calls over the intercom, informing everyone that the library will be closing in thirty minutes, and you stand from your chair, stretching again. Hux can see the barest sliver of skin as your shirt rides up in response, and he forces himself to look away.

“Headed home?” he asks, sounding pathetic even to his own ears.

“In a little bit, probably,” you respond, looking over your shoulder at the mostly-deserted study area. “There’s a book I need to find first.”

Hux nods, but you don’t leave yet, checking over your shoulder again, “would you mind coming with me? I think it might be on one of the upper shelves, and I can’t reach them by myself.”

Hux stands, gesturing for you to lead the way, although he’s not sure whether you’d really need his help—there were step stools at the end of all the shelves for that exact purpose. He follows you anyways, pouring all of his focus into ignoring the sway of your hips as you walk.

The two of you journey deeper into the library, past rows and rows of shelves until he’s not entirely sure what section you’re in anymore. There are no students studying back here, no one wandering through the stacks, no security guards keeping tabs on anybody. You’re alone, just the two of you.

You stop abruptly, in the middle of a random aisle, the shelves on either side towering over you, blocking the rest of the world from view.

“Which one where you looking for?” Hux asks, scanning the shelves, looking for a title he might recognize. They’re mostly reference books, it seems, thick like dictionaries and dusty as hell. It doesn’t look like anyone has picked one of them up in years.

Hux turns his attention back to you, his eyes going wide. You’re closer than you had been before, standing right in front of him and looking up at him with bright, sheepish eyes.

“I lied,” you whisper, stepping closer again, and the numbing warmth from earlier has spread over his entire body in response, “I just wanted an excuse to be alone with you.”

Hux swallows, eyes flashing towards the cracked tiles on the ceiling. He can’t look at you and think at the same time. The ceiling blurs when he feels you trace one of his shirt buttons with the tip of your finger, slowly trailing down over his chest. He must be imagining things.

“I thought-” he begins, but his voice cracks, and he clears it, embarrassed, “I thought you didn’t like me.”

You laugh breathlessly, “I’m sorry, but I can’t really help it. Being around you, it’s always made me nervous.”

“I make you nervous?” Hux startled eyes flash your sheepish ones, and you pull your lip between your teeth again.

“Very, but Phasma said something in the dining hall the other day, and I just wondered . . . “ you drift off, suddenly very interested in the books lining the shelves next to you. Hux sucks in a deep breath, trying to process all the information he’s been given.

There’s a lot of things that he could say in this moment—a whole variety of ways he could assure that he felt the same, but there’s something he’s wanted to do all night, and now he can’t resist, “can I kiss you?”

Your eyes flash back to his, full of relief, desire, and then you move in tandem, his arms wrapping around your waist as his mouth finds yours.

The feeling is intense, and immediate—he can’t get enough of you and you still give him everything, wasting no time before you slide your tongue between his parted lips.

Hux groans as he feels you move against him, the subtle shift of your hips against his own lighting a fire beneath his skin, and he needs leverage, needs pressure, needs _more_. You shift, sensing these desires, and soon he’s got you trapped with your spine against the shelves and the rest of you pressed against the hard lines of his body.

Somewhere, in the far off corners of his mind, Hux wonders what’s come over him—how he’s managed to live out one of his greatest fantasies with the one person he can’t get out of his head. But that’s a thought for another time; right now, he’s got more important things to worry about.

His mouth travels down over your jaw and your back arches into his touch as you lift yourself higher, straining on your tip toes to give him as much purchase as possible. When he latches on to the thrumming pulse-point on your neck, skimming it with the barest trace of his teeth, you let out a soft, low moan, and it feels like heaven. 

“Hey!” the call startles you both, and he jumps away from you, squinting into the beam of a flashlight. There’s a security guard, half in shadow at the end of the aisle; they must have turned the lights off already without either of you noticing.

“Library’s closed,” he says, annoyed—he’s probably caught more people in worse positions than this but Hux flushes anyways, a soft, pink stain blotting over his cheeks.

“We were just leaving,” you say, equally bashful. The security guard rolls his eyes, and gestures for you to leave, his gaze burning into Hux’s back as you walk past, probably watching to make sure you don’t duck back in to another set of shelves.

You make it back to your table, shoving your things into your bag haphazardly. “I’m really sorry about that,” you say, a nervous giggle breaking through your lips, but Hux stops you.

“Don’t be,” he says, and he means it. He’s willing to be embarrassed a million times over if it means he gets to touch you again. You smile at the ground before taking his hand in yours, leading him towards the door.

“Anyways, I was thinking,” you say as you walk past another glaring security guard, “that maybe we could study together again tomorrow night?”

Hux smiles, “it’s a date.”


	31. Someone Else pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! No official request for this one but a few people did say they’d like to see part two and it kind of just … happened ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Warnings: Language, infidelity, minor sexual content, threats/violence against the reader, so much angst oh fuck, but a happy ending so i guess it cancels out?

General Hux stares deeply at his own reflection, searching intently for any hint of this deception. His eyes travel up from the bottom of the mirror, catching the shine of his boots as they pass upwards, scanning his uniform, which—as far as he can tell—is immaculate, without a spot or wrinkle. He checks his face next (blank, impassive) before his eyes roam over his stark red hair—combed back, neat. Not a strand out of place. And yet he can’t escape the feeling deep down in his bones, the one that leaches into his consciousness every time he’s with you and _she’s_ still lurking the back of his mind: _everybody knows._

Hux rolls his eyes and gives up on the hopeless view in the mirror, sliding it back into its hiding place before turning to face you. He needs another set of eyes if he wants to know the truth. “How do I look?” 

His heart stutters again when he meets your gaze—stuttering like it did when your palms brushed over his chest, your nails raking thin red lines into his already flushed skin—and thinking about it is fire in his lungs. You’re still looking _disheveled_ : half-dressed, hair wild, and swiveling back and forth in his chair behind his desk, your feet propped up on the surface—a move that would bother him if it were anyone else but you. A smile crawls slowly across your face, your expression blissful as you respond, “you look very handsome.”

Gods, he’s blushing _again_. It had taken minutes for the color to drain from his face the first time, but a soft look and compliment from your parted lips and brings it all back, alerting anyone who would look at him to his red-hot shame. 

And when you see it, your smile turns sad.

You drop your feet from off his desk, straightening your own uniform with a little less care than Hux had, your steps tentative as you cross the distance between his desk and where he stands by the door—only a few feet, but it feels like miles when you stop just out of his reach, wrapping your arms around yourself, holding tight … like he wants to hold you, again. Hux balls his hands into fists, forcing them to remain at his sides, fighting the urge to brush his fingers over the edge of your lips, trace the delicate skin of your jaw. Peel the uniform from your shoulders and snuff out all of his unease with velvet kisses. Hux silences those desires. After everything he’s put you through, he hardly deserves to breathe the same air. 

You examine him with sharp eyes, willfully ignoring his inner turmoil that he’s sure you notice to focus on the matter at hand. Your inspection yields good results; you meet his eyes again with the slightest frown.

“You look the same as before,” you say, corners of your mouth pulling down further, brows furrowing, “no one will be able to tell.” Hux lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a mixture of shame and relief filling the empty space in his lungs.

Had he always been such a coward? Hux had never thought of himself as one to give into such base wants, but so far he’s been totally unsuccessful in his attempts to resist you, to bide his time until he’s dealt with the root of the problem. No, he keeps coming back, _each time the last time_ , fucking you in cramped closets and over his desk while _she’s_ warming his bed. Losing himself in the iridescent high of your body and ignoring the sharp pangs of your love that he leaves unopened in your waiting hands. 

Silence hangs, the air full of unsaid things and your lips part—words balanced on the tip of your tongue that would pierce like knives and Hux can’t hear them because it will hurt you to say them, and he’s already caused you so much pain. 

“I have to go,” he says, cutting you off before you get the chance, “Bristol will be back soon.” Her name is out of his mouth before he can think to stop it, and your face falls, a grimace crossing your features that you can’t remove quickly enough. There are tears pricking the corners of your eyes, he thinks, but he’s not close enough to know for sure. He doesn’t step any closer. 

“Alright.” You swallow hard, suck in a deep breath through your nose so that he won’t see you break, but the smile you plaster on your face chips at the corners, and it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’ll be here.” 

The air in the room is stifling, filled with your deafening sadness, all the feelings you try to keep from him because you know it hurts him to see you like this and you care about him so _damn_ much. You care too much. He doesn’t deserve you. 

“ _This_ ,” he whispers, like if he’s quiet enough he won’t have to hear himself say it either, “can’t happen again.” It’s not the first time he’s said these words to you, but it breaks you just the same. If it goes on for much longer, he’ll never have the chance to put you back together.

“I understand.” You turn towards the back wall, unwilling to let him see you cry—for his sake or yours, though, he’s not sure. 

Hux leaves without saying goodbye. 

No one gives him a second glance when he steps out of his office doors and into the commotion of the bridge; his worries were unfounded, just as the rational part of him knew they would be. Still, the guilt only grows as he moves through the halls of the _Finalizer_ , on his way to greet his wife.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. After the wedding, after that night in his office when you had kissed him for the first time and everything felt right, he had made plans—how to rid himself of Bristol and Pryde, plans to keep you at his side, love you the way you deserved to be loved. Plans that had crumbled like dust between his fingers the second he stepped foot off the transport to the Alfospar system.

He couldn’t explain it at that time, the way his resolve shriveled like paper in water when he first saw that gleaming city, the towers and spires of the royal home so different from the sleek, black halls of the _Finalizer_ , towers and spires that Bristol had walked her entire life. Now he knows what caused it: the fear that gripped his heart. Not just fear. _Inadequacy_. He had looked to his new wife, saw the haughty determination in her features as she surveyed the grand palace with a look of utmost boredom, and he hated her. But he hated himself even more knowing that she was capable in ways he could never dream. She was born to rule. He had done everything imaginable to earn that kind power, and still he came short.

The two weeks in the palace passed in a color-leeched blur. Hux attended meetings. He met Bristol’s family. They consummated the marriage. And he never stopped thinking about you.

When he returned to the ship, he made new plans, plans to remove his heart with surgical precision, plans that would leave him empty and miserable for the rest of his life but would save you from him.

Those plans had crumbled, too, the moment you whispered in the darkness of your quarters, “ _I missed you, did you miss me?_ ” and he had been too selfish to lie. That was the first time he had fallen into your arms, let you drown out his pain without any concern for your own.

His father had been right all along. Hux is spineless. Everyone else managed to see it. He wonders how he had you fooled for so long.

______________________________

You’re having trouble adjusting to the quiet. It’s a feat of engineering, really—a true testament to his genius—that the general’s office manages to be quieter than a grave despite the teeming world of the bridge that lives just outside it. It had been the quiet that had first made his office such an appealing location for these meetings. That, and no one would question your presence here.

You had been careful from the beginning—given no indication of the affair, raised no suspicion, and had been ready to smother any rumor that might have spread. There was never a need for that kind of action; you covered your tracks. But sitting here in this demonic silence, you want to ruin it all. Turn every touch and kiss and loving look into a song, a battle cry. A death sentence. You want everyone to know what you’ve done. Maybe then you’d feel something.

Your cheeks are sticky with long-dried tears, and you try to brush them off with a sleeve, a brittle laugh escaping your lips thinking back to the day of the wedding. At the time, you had believed your heart to be broken. What a fool you used to be. How little you had known about how it feels to set your heart gently into someone else’s waiting hands and then watch them shatter it.

You stand from the chair abruptly, cutting off the image before it takes root in your mind. There’s no time for self-pity when you have work to do.

You grab your data pad from where you left it on his desk, turning the screen face you. Your heart jumps a little in your chest when you see the messages light up the screen, but you’re left feeling sour. None of them are from him. 

He did that sometimes, after he left you—occasionally sent an apology, sometimes told you that he hadn’t really meant what he’d said. Sometimes he wanted to see you again, already, and you’d go searching for whatever conference room or closet he had commandeered, the warmth pooling between your legs erasing any of the harsh feelings from the moments before. 

But no message this time. Maybe he had meant it. Maybe he didn’t want you like he thought you did. Maybe he never had.

You’re sure, now, that the uncertainty will eat you alive, burst from your chest like some grotesque thing and feast on every part of you, rip and tear and bite until it’s sated and you’re left in pieces. You wish it would. Death is better than waiting. 

There’s a gentle beep from your data pad, and you look down again, distracted momentarily from your spiraling. It’s an urgent alert, from one of the admirals. They need your help interpreting some notes the general gave them on a recent project proposal. 

You stop just before the doorway, taking in three deep breaths, letting the cool air wash away the fire of your thoughts. There would be time later to ruin yourself over this mess, when sleep evaded you in the late hours of the night cycle. For now, duty calls.

You move through the bridge with ease, reading the messages you had missed. Your eyes scan them with practiced precision, sorting them by urgency and responding to the ones you can take care of quickly as you journey deeper into the ship. It doesn’t take long for you to get lost in the process, the dark tiles passing underneath your feet unnoticed as you lose yourself in your work.

The sound of footsteps in the otherwise empty hallway pulls you out of your trance, and you look up briefly, more out of a passing curiosity rather than any real interest. Your heart grows cold when you catch her eyes, and the feeling spreads like ice over a body of water.

“Hello, your highness,” you try to keep any tension out of your voice as you address Bristol with a small bow, skirting around her in the hallway in your best attempt to avoid her sustained notice. Her eyes narrow when they focus on you, and the cold feeling shatters, the dread climbing up your legs like the water level rising in a sinking vessel.

“ _You_ ,” there’s venom in her voice, a kind of hatred you never thought you’d inspire in anyone and you feel every barb of it when she latches on to you, gripping your upper arm with such strength that you can feel the indentations of her nails through the fabric of your uniform. 

The wall of the hallway meets your spine as you step back, your attempted escape only leaving you trapped, chest heaving as she stares you down like a predator. It’s clear in every aspect of her being that she’s ravenous.

“Well?” she snaps, and you flinch, the durasteel biting your shoulder blades as you try to gain as much distance as you can from her, straining every muscle in your body for any kind of relief, but she won’t let you take it, pressing you into the wall. “Where is he?”

“I’m not sure where the general is right now, your highness,” you speak slowly, trying to gauge the direction of her anger, “I was under the impression that he’d gone to find you.”

The moments pass in deathly silence, and the waiting stretches each second into a lifetime, but there’s nothing comprehensible in her expression. She’s wild, animalistic, the same fierceness you’ve seen in her as a leader now morphed into something frenzied and feral. It’s only a moment before it’s lost, replaced with something extinguished and icy. Her grip on your arm tightens.

“I know you’ve been fucking my husband.”

You plunge into whatever depths she’s created for you, the shock of it short-wiring your brain and all you can do is gape at her, your mind refusing to form a single thought, let alone any string of words that might convince her to believe a lie. It’s too late anyway; your expression tells her everything she needs to know.

“How _dare_ you? Embarrassing me like this? I could end your life right here, and he’d have your replacement in his office tomorrow morning.” Each threat brings her closer until you can only see her in fragments—the corner of her mouth as she spits these vile words, the flash of fire in the depths of her eyes. Your heart rate spikes, a rush of adrenaline flooding your veins but your thoughts are still unfocused, without form or direction. Would she really kill you here, now? The look on her face tells you that she might.

You struggle uselessly against her grip, but she’s got you pinned—one hand on your shoulder and a knee at your hip. Your body goes still when you feel the whisper of metal at your throat. You didn’t know she had a blade.

“Gods, you’re just as pathetic as he is,” she laughs, quick and sharp, and the weapon quivers—you feel the gentle sting as it parts the first layers of your skin. The sting brightens as she pushes the blade further, leaning in close to whisper her parting words, “maybe you deserve each other.”

A flurry of movement clouds your vision, and the pressure lifts; in the periphery of your thoughts you can hear the blade clatter to the ground. Your knees threaten to buckle as you lean more heavily against the wall, trying to find the source of your salvation.

The general is there, but as unlike himself as you’ve ever seen him. He looks like a storm, towering over her, shaking with rage. Like a force of nature—it’s the kind of anger you’ve never seen in him before. 

Time stops. Understanding crashes into you. It’s like you’ve been blindfolded, without even knowing it, and the covering has given way to an astonishing brightness when you first comprehend what this action means. The realization staggers you.

“You don’t-” he can hardly get the words out as he seethes at Bristol, speaking through clenched teeth, “don’t _ever_ -”

Bristol quivers, aghast, and it seems that she, too, is seeing her husband with new eyes.

The hallway is filled with loud, echoey beats of a heart, and you’re not sure who it belongs to. It strikes you, this sudden fear that someone might be watching these events unfold, that it might be their heart making these sounds, alerting you to their presence. You search the corridor, whipping your head from side to side but there are no prying eyes, no silent watchers, and your heart settles minutely.

You turn back to the general, wondering how he’ll react to the news, but his eyes are only on you.

Bristol pulls herself from Hux’s grasp and the tension reshapes itself as her mood shifts again, haughty and icy as ever.

“So,” she looks between you and the general, and as much as she’d like to hide it, her anger is not gone, “you’ve chosen the little whore. Interesting.”

Hux ignores her statement, still watching you.

“I won’t stand for this,” Bristol goes shrill now, attempting to pull his attention but his eyes are locked in place and you burn under his gaze. He wants something from you, a confirmation, you realize. He wants to know that you’re alright.

You nod—still hesitant, not entirely sure that this is what he’s asking for—and only then does he look away, turning back to Bristol with a stare so cold you feel the chill. 

“The next breath you use to threaten _anyone_ on this ship will be your last,” Hux speaks with an authority you’ve never heard him use around Bristol and she flinches, like she’s been slapped, “and you will stay away from my … assistant.” 

His eyes flash to yours again, full of unsaid things—a kind of apology for this lapse in language, but you understand perfectly. There are no words to describe what he means to you, either. 

Bristol laughs, one short barking sound, and you know she means to demoralize him, but Hux stands firm, unaffected. “You think you can scare me with empty threats? I’m sorry to say that I’m unimpressed. If only your father were here to see this-”

“But my father isn’t here,” Hux interrupts her, “he’s dead. Because I ordered it. And you should know,” he steps closer to her, his voice a deadly whisper, and she shrinks, “my threats are _never_ empty.”

Bristol quivers slightly, unable to hide her fear and you don’t blame her. She gives up on threatening the general and looks to you instead, her eyes flashing with one last weak attempt to intimidate you before she stalks off, leaving the corridor empty. 

You search for something—anything—to say, your mouth gaping open as the general turns to look at you, but there’s nothing, your mind blank and empty of any feelings small enough to be condensed into a few words. 

There’s no need to shrink your feelings; before you can say anything, Hux has bridged the distance between you, pulling you into his arms with more force than you thought possible. It’s both suffocating and liberating—your lungs struggling for their next breath but your mind is euphoric when you can feel the press of him against you.

He has a hand around your waist, one cupped against the back of your head, and you can feel his whispered apologies as they brush against your hairline, followed by the slow drag of his lips. A low thrill crawls over your skin. How long had it been since he said he’d never touch you again? You’d live through that pain a thousand times if it meant you could experience _this_.

“Are you alright?” he pulls away slightly, just enough that he can look at you, the pad of his gloved thumb wiping away the thin streak of blood left by Bristol’s blade. His touch ghosts along the injury, but you still feel the sting, unable to hide the way you wince in response.

His thumb stills as soon as he catches the flicker of pain, and there’s deep fountains of regret pooling in his eyes, a sadness so complete you can’t fathom it.

“I’m- I’ll never be able to say,” he swallows, pulls in a shuddering breath, and you feel his hands threaten to part from you but you only hold him tighter, anchoring him to you, “how sorry I am for the way I’ve treated you.” 

The anguish spills over, and he’s crying in your arms a second time, quick tremors shaking his shoulders. You can’t collect the tears fast enough, brushing them away with shaking hands, silencing his fears with soft whispers.

“I love you,” he says through hiccuped speech, “and I always have. And, if you’ll have me-” you silence his doubts with a searing kiss. For you, there has never been—never could be—anyone else.


	32. Fences (Modern AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @aramanna asked: Neighbor!Hux fanfic? Your dog wanders into his yard and you start talking after clearing up the mishap?
> 
> Hey friend, thanks for the request! This is kind of a modern version of a post TROS Hux, where he’s a little healthier, I think. The reader is a teacher because I’m a self-indulgent bitch 🥰 Also, I’ve never seen Peter Rabbit, but reading this again I feel like this might just be Thomas McGregor. Let me know if I’m right, I guess 😂😂😂
> 
> Warnings: discussion of a family member passing away, mentions of hospice care, maybe language?

When Armitage Hux isn’t working, eating, or sleeping, he is in his garden. Which, for him at least, was a lot like work. Even so, he found that it relaxes him; there was something about being outside in the evening light—watering his flowers, picking stray weeds—that made everything clearer. He never had space like this when he lived in the city, but now that he’s away from it all, taking care of this space; it’s made him a better lawyer. Whenever he’s stuck on a case, feeling like he’s exhausted every possibility, a few moments with his hands in the soft soil helped him unearth the perfect solution to his problems. 

And sometimes you were there, in your own backyard, of course. He wouldn’t watch you—that would be _wrong_ —but he couldn’t help but notice you through the little gaps in the chain-link fence. Sometimes he found you in your hammock stretched between two trees at the back of your house, your legs the only part of you visible as you swayed in the breeze. Or occasionally you’d spread out a blanket on warm summer days, soaking in the sun as you read. 

Every so often he’d get the wild idea that he might say something to you, before changing his mind, or losing his nerve. He hadn’t said more than a handful of words to you since you moved in next door a few months ago—only visiting your doorstep on the rare occasion that your mail was delivered to the wrong house, or he wanted to borrow a cup of flour, or he needed some milk. Lately he’s played with the idea of approaching you about replacing the fence that runs between your houses—a terribly ugly chain link fixture—but he’s been putting that conversation off for some time now, waiting for the right moment.

Today could be the day, though. It’s a quiet Saturday, the last rays of sunlight stretching over the thick green grass, the air alive with the smell of earth as the water trickles from his hose over his many flowers, the sound only interrupted by the occasional passing car.

Hux listens more closely when a new sound is added—the slam of your back door, and then a series of gleeful yips, but he doesn’t let himself turn around just yet, choosing instead to feign indifference for a few more moments. This is the real reason he’s been putting off the conversation about the fence. Your incredibly _enthusiastic_ new puppy has given him twice the opportunity to spend time with you. If you could call it that. 

He turns now, after what he thinks is an appropriate waiting period, and you catch his eye, offering him a slight wave, which he returns—with the hand _not_ holding the hose, this time. You’re attention pulled away from him for a moment as you watch the little corgi zip around your small yard, but Hux keeps his eyes on you, appreciating the way you light up with laughter at the dog’s antics.

He could talk to you right now, if he wanted. Could strike up a conversation about something inane, like the weather, invite you over for a drink, or maybe dinner sometime. He doesn’t think you’re seeing anyone, after all—hasn’t noticed any overnight guests, hasn’t seen you picked up for any dates. But maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

Your door slams again, pulling him out of his fantasy world, and he turns back to see your yard left empty. Another missed opportunity. Hux doesn’t let himself feel too low about it; there’s always tomorrow.

He wakes early on Sunday morning—always awake before the sun rises—and that suits him just fine, padding through his empty house to the kitchen. Grey light streams in through the windows as the quiet morning sounds fill Hux’s ears: water boiling on the stove, the quiet rustle of cat food as he scoops some more into Millie’s bowl.

Where is Millicent? he wonders to himself—she normally sprints into the room at the first sign of her morning meal, but now he sees no sign of her. Hux wanders into the living room, eyes scanning the floor before he finds her by the sliding-glass door at the back of the house, her eyes watchful, tail swishing back and forth.

“What are you doing, Millie?” he asks, and she turns to look at him with her wide, intelligent eyes, offering him a soft meow in response. He _really_ has to stop doing that, talking to his cat. It’s just another testament to the adverse side-effects of living alone. Millicent stays by the door, turning her eyes back to the glass, and eventually Hux caves, walking to the window, hoping to see something more interesting than a stray bird or squirrel.

Hux gasps as soon as he sees it, yanking open the sliding glass, not bothering to find shoes before he steps out onto the cool, wet grass—still damp from the early morning mist. A soft cry falls from his parted lips while he takes in the damage. His garden, it’s _ruined_.

He picks his way through the clods of dirt that litter the grass, trying to get a better look. There’s not a flower that’s been left undisturbed, every single one of them ripped from the dirt, mangled, crushed. Totally unsalvageable.

The headache that blossoms behind his eyes is all too familiar as it rears its ugly head. He thought he had left it behind with the Order—the unpleasant reminder that there’s so little he has control over, that something always goes wrong. Now it’s back with a vengeance.

Hux hears the little yip from the far side of the yard and turns to look, hoping to catch the culprit that had destroyed all his hard work. He sees the bushy little tail, wiggling as the intruder paws through the soft, brown earth, and he recognizes it immediately. His suspicions are confirmed when he turns the other way, notices the gap created at the bottom of the fence that separates your property from his. 

The dog yelps when Hux grabs him and immediately begins to squirm, trying to get free, but Hux holds on tight, stomping back through the grass all the way to your front door, breathing hard. He knocks three times in loud, rapid succession, and he only has to wait for a moment before it opens.

As soon as Hux sees you, his anger vanishes, and a cacophony of other emotions takes its place. Embarrassment is first—you’re standing there in your pajamas, squinting into the first rays of sunlight peeking up over the houses across the street as you rub some leftover sleep from your eyes, and Hux just now realizes that he is also still in his sleepwear: an old t-shirt and some boxers, a ratty, blue robe thrown over his shoulders.

“Hello, Armitage,” you greet him with a smile, the sound of his name on your lips bringing a blush to his cheeks. You’ve always called him Armitage, ever since one of his stray bills had found its way into your mailbox, and he’s never had the courage to let you know nobody calls him by his first name. “Did you need someth-”

You gasp before you can finish, finally noticing the writhing little dog in his hands, and you reach for it immediately, pulling it in close to your chest. “Noodle!” Hux tries to process the exclamation before he realizes you’re still talking to the corgi—that must be his name. You turn your attention back to Hux and he pulls his robe closed over his pajamas, wrapping his arms over his chest. He needs to tell you about the fence, his garden. He can’t let himself get distracted.

You’re talking again before he gets the chance to formulate a sentence, holding the little dog against your hip like a baby, where he rests without wiggling, occasionally licking at your bare arm, looking up at you with his soft puppy eyes. “Thank you for bringing him back, I didn’t even realize he had gotten out of the yard,” you say, “I didn’t leave the gate open, did I?”  
Hux pauses, wondering how he should break the news to you. You still haven’t noticed the dirt covering the little demon’s paws, and you look at him with such innocence that for a moment, he thinks he should just leave and take care of the mess himself. 

His silence says enough, your face falling when you first realize what it could mean. You look to the dog’s paws, then see the mud caking his fluffy little legs. “Oh no, he didn’t … “

“You should see for yourself.”

Hux watches as you take in the wreckage that was once his garden. You don’t say anything for a few minutes, just standing, staring. He had been so angry when he had first seen the carnage, but looking at it for a second time, he can’t find any of the leftover rage anywhere inside of him, especially not now, as he’s seeing it through your eyes. You look like you’re about to cry.

“I’ll pay for a new fence,” you say, turning to look at him with such urgent sadness, “and I’ll buy you new flowers. I’ll plant them all myself.” 

“That’s- that’s not necessary,” Hux stutters out a response, looking away from you, back to the destroyed flower patch. He can’t stand to see you like this, so torn up over a silly garden, and with every passing moment he grows more and more sure that you’ll never want to speak to him again after this, if he doesn’t make things right. “It wasn’t your fault.”

You reach out to him, your grip firm where it rests on his arm. “Please,” you say, and you’re not just asking, you’re begging, “please, let me help. I can fix this.”

Hux looks down to the place where your hand rests against the arm of his robe, watches the way your fingers flex against him, and his heart softens, lifting his eyes to meet yours again. He gives you the smallest nod, watching as your face lights up with joy, relief, and for a moment, he finds himself feeling incredibly grateful for your silly, little dog.

* * *

Hux looks back, as he wanders through the aisles of his favorite greenhouse, checking, once again, to make sure that you’re still following him before placing a few marigolds in the cart with a small cough. You had admitted pretty early on in your negotiations that you didn’t know much about gardening, but you had still insisted on helping, and Hux just couldn’t say no.

You’re easy to be around, he finds quickly, despite his nerves. He had been afraid that the rest of his day would be filled with awkward silences and stilted conversation, but words flow like water between you. You had spent the drive here telling him stories about your students, about what life was like before you moved, about the family and friends you left behind, and how much you missed them.

“Why’d you leave?” he asks absentmindedly, searching through the pansies for the healthiest of the bunch, his eyes searching for you again when you don’t immediately respond.

“My grandmother,” you begin, suddenly melancholy again, “I used to live with her every summer here. She left her house to me when she passed. I don’t know if you remember her.” 

Hux thought back, easily conjuring the image of his old neighbor in his mind. She was a sweet lady who dropped off cookies to his porch when he first arrived at his new home, or occasionally asked him for help hanging a painting, carrying in her groceries. She had been the one who had found Millicent, when she was still a stray. He still remembers how sheepish she had looked, asking if he would take care of the little kitten while she found it a new home. _I’d look after her myself_ , she had said, standing on his doorstep with the little orange bundle in her arms, _but I’m not as young as I used to be_. 

“I remember her,” he says, and you smile again, “ but I didn’t know her that well.”

“She liked you-” you push the cart forward a little, nudging him with your shoulder as you pass, and the contact leaves him struggling for air, “I called her a lot, when she first started to get sick. She always talked about your flowers,” your voice grows thick, and you clear your throat, “she insisted that they put her hospice bed by the big window in the kitchen, so she could still see them whenever she wanted.” 

You keep walking, steps a little more hurried now, maybe so he won’t see you tear up. Hux follows closely behind, still trying to process everything he had just learned. He could make sense of your reaction to the flowerbed fiasco now, why you had looked so distraught. 

“She mentioned you,” Hux says, walking quickly to catch up with you, “now that I think about it. She’d tell me I’d have to stay for dinner some night, so I could meet her favorite grandchild.” 

You laugh, your eyes lighting up in a way that makes his heart drop to his stomach. “That sounds like her; she was always quite the matchmaker,” you respond, before your eyes grow wide with embarrassment, and you realize what you’ve just said. Hux can feel his cheeks grow warm as well, and neither of you breathe, staring at each other in the middle of the aisle. He can scarcely let himself believe it, but it’s impossible to deny, the way you glance down at his lips, your own parting in response. Hux leans in, just slightly, just enough to feel the heat of your skin. He’s not sure if it’s your perfume or the air of the greenhouse, but everything smells like flowers, and desire, a heady scent that goes straight to his head as he watches you close the gap between his face and yours, your eyes still focused on his mouth, your breathing hard.

There’s a slight cough, and then a giggle, and you both turn at the same time, looking to the end of the aisle. Hux can feel his blush grow deeper when he sees the intruders, a group of girls—high school age, he thinks—watching you with wide eyes and mischievous grins.

“Sorry,” one of them says, and the other two break into fits of laughter again, “we were just trying to get through.” You move the cart out of the way good-naturedly as they move past, barely able to contain their laughter as they glide by.

You look at Hux again, but the moment is lost, to his dismay. You clear your throat, looking back at him with your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “Is there anything else that we need?” you ask, and he scans the cart in front of you, absolutely overflowing with flowers.

“I think that’s it,” he says, turning back to you. “Let’s go.” 

* * *

Golden rays of sunlight pour in through every window in Hux’s kitchen, the warmth of the day just beginning to fade into a quiet, twilight-kissed evening. You’re resting against his kitchen counter, eyes wandering around the space, but Hux keeps his eyes on you as he pours some water into a glass. You’re glowing, he thinks, and it’s not just the sunset. Your eyes are brighter, skin glistening with sweat before you swipe the back of your arm over your forehead to collect the stray perspiration. A soft breeze blows in through the open windows, a breeze that smells like freshly-planted flowers and the first inklings of nightfall. 

Hux hands you the glass, and you take it with a smile, drinking deeply. You had both worked through the heat of the day, side by side, planting and watering and cleaning, everything about it natural, easy. He had shown you how to remove the plants from their temporary pots, brush the soil from their roots—watched as you created small indentations in the new dirt, the gentle work of your hands, and he thought back to the greenhouse, and the smell of flowers and your skin. 

You finish draining the glass, wiping away a stray droplet of water that travels down your neck before you catch it with your fingers. He moves in closer. He doesn’t want to lose this moment. 

There’s a stray smudge of dirt on your cheek, and he brushes it away with the pad of his thumb, pulling his attention to you.

“Thank you, for this,” you whisper, and you smile at his confusion, “for letting me help. I would have felt really guilty if you had to do that all alone.”

“Don’t mention it,” Hux is thrumming, his heart a live-wire. Just being this close to you has filled him with fire—twin sunsets, one inside his chest and the other flooding through the windows. 

“I’ll get the fence repaired, as well,” you set your glass down on the counter behind you before lifting yourself onto its surface, sitting with your legs dangling, leaning forward so you can look him directly in the eyes. “Or we can get it replaced, if you’d rather-”

It’s more than he can bear, this small talk, more than he can take to be so close to you and be forced to think of you being so far away, to have you anywhere but with him, in his kitchen, his garden, his bedroom. He kisses you before you can finish your thought, before he can think about being alone again while you’re on the other side of the fence—a whole life-time away.

“I don’t want to talk about fences anymore,” he mumbles against your lips, barely able to hear himself over the sound of your breathing, intoxicated by the feel of you. You pull him closer, wrapping your arms more tightly around his shoulders, and suddenly, fences are the furthest thing from his mind.


	33. Burning for You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! So last night @armitages-galaxy on tumblr shared some headcanons about touch-starved Hux and I immediately imploded. I fell asleep thinking about it, I woke up thinking about it, and then a few hours later, I finished this. Please enjoy!
> 
> Hux x gn reader
> 
> Warnings: Soft-core smut (18+ ONLY PLEASE). Handjob, some grinding, Virgin!Hux. No plot. No editing because I’m too lazy, and there’s a POV shift towards the top that I didn’t bother to fix. Also, I’ve never written anything like this before, so please be nice to me 🥺

He lays still as the dead in the moonlight, the slow, shaky rhythm of his chest as it rises and falls hardly noticeable beneath the thin layer of his shirt. You sit back on your knees next to him, shifting as the soft mattress moves to accommodate you, admiring him like a painting, or a statue. You could stare at him for hours.

Your touch is light, when you stroke two fingers up the inside of his arm, the bluish tint of his veins visible underneath his pale skin. He lets out a gasp; you turn to see his brow furrowed, lips parted. He looks like he’s in pain.

You pull away your fingers immediately, clutching your hand to your chest as if his skin had burned you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s alright,” he silences your fears, his features relaxing just slightly, and you can tell by the way he speaks that his mouth has gone dry, “it felt . . . good.” 

So much exists in that pause, lifetimes of words that he can’t manage to say. It hadn’t felt _good_. That word wasn’t enough. Your touch was nameless in its beauty, like nothing he’d ever experienced before. There was joy, in your fingertips. A promise of something greater he had never let himself ponder before this moment. Laying here, bathing with you in this soft glow, he can’t help but believe in miracles.

“Would you like me to keep going?” you whisper, your voice wholly absent of illicit intentions, but a fire sparks deep in his stomach, and he clenches his teeth to stifle the groan that escapes his chest. Gods, what is _wrong_ with him? 

He nods—speaking isn’t a very safe option for him at the moment, clenching his hand into a fist so that he won’t flinch when you make contact.

It’s your whole hand this time, pressing it solidly against his inner wrist. Your skin is warmer than his, but not even that can explain the blaze that starts beneath your touch, prickling at the surface. He blushes, wondering if you can feel it, too. 

You keep your eyes trained on him as you drag your hand over his skin, painfully slow. He wants to grip you by your shoulders, press you into the mattress, feel every inch of your skin against the pads of his fingers, but even this makes him lightheaded, and all of his focus goes into keeping his breathing in check.

Your fingers dance over the sleeve of his shirt, tracing long lines back and forth over his chest. He knows, without seeing, that his skin is flushed, red like his hair even under his clothing, his body responding to your touch in all the most embarrassing ways. Then your hand trails lower, resting just below his ribs, and he can’t ignore it anymore. He’s hard, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“You okay?” you ask, your voice gentle, without judgement. He’s not sure how you can be so kind to him—he can’t even manage to _like_ himself, but the feeling of your skin against his might change that. Might change _him_.

You’re gentle, watching him closely as you lift the material of his shirt higher, exposing the soft skin of his stomach, the thin trail of glimmering hair disappearing beneath the hem of his sleep pants. He shakes when you make eye contact, his breathing staggered and rough. You _have_ to notice. How could you not, with your hand mere inches from his hardening length—so hard it hurts‚ pressing through the material of his pants, desperate to make itself known even as he wills it away? He feels faint— _needy_. Like he’ll die if you don’t keep touching him.

“Is this alright?” He can’t be sure, but he thinks you might be smiling, so wholly unaffected as his own world spirals out of control. Still, he manages a nod as he focuses on sucking in another lungful of air. 

You stretch out, laying at his side—hands resting on the plush mattress instead of on his skin—and he grits his teeth, almost desperate enough to beg. 

“I need to hear you say it, general,” his eyes flutter closed when you press a soft kiss to his cheek, another to his temple, “tell me what you want.” 

“I-” he swallows, breathing hard, “I want you to touch me.” He’s wholly lost in the feeling of you, eyes closed, anticipating where the next gentle caress of your lips might meet his skin, the tempo of his heartbeat rising with every kiss. First his eyelid, then his jaw. A soft moan escapes—one he finds he doesn’t truly want to conceal—when your lips travel over the skin of his neck before you take his earlobe between your teeth, flicking at the soft flesh with the tip of your tongue.

“Where do you want me to touch you?” Another soft kiss, this time at the corner of his mouth, and he lets the gravity of you take over, his own lips turning to find yours.

“ _Everywhere_.” That must have been the right thing to say. You seal your lips over his, kissing him breathless, but it doesn’t escape his notice when one of your hands splays over the bare expanse of his stomach, your fingers stoking the growing fire as they shift lower, down to the stretched material of his sleep pants.

Your touch is light, as you press your hand against his member, but his hips thrust into your touch of their own accord, so needy as a soft gasp parting his lips. He’s flushed all the way down to his chest as the fire in his stomach spreads, practically panting, but you don’t move, waiting silently for him to adjust.

“I’ve never- I mean, no one’s ever-” you quiet him with a kiss, softer than the one before, communicating lifetimes of understanding without uttering a single word. 

“I just want to make you feel good,” you whisper the words against his lips, and your breath is sweet and minty as the scent floods his nose. He can taste you on his lips, feel you in his lungs. He wants to be consumed by you.

“Close your eyes, try to relax.” He does as you ask, leaning back into the pillows, swallowing hard, but his eyes stay open, trained on your face. He needs to commit you to memory.

The movements of your hand are slow and strong as you stroke his length over his clothes, the fire sparking more intensely before morphing to something resonant and warm. You’re attentive with your touch—even through the fabric—your fingers catching every ridge and vein of his dick. He lets out a soft gasp when you brush gently over the head, his eyes falling back in pleasure.

“ _Please_ ,” the word comes out as a gasp more than a whisper, and he’s not even sure what he’s asking for, but he knows you’ll give it to him when he looks into your eyes, the soft smile on your face. You want to make him feel good.

Your hands press solidly into his chest as you move, throwing one leg over him to straddle his lap before you gently tug on the material of his shirt. He follows you up into a sitting position, leaning into the kiss you press against his waiting lips.

It’s one smooth movement, but it still punches the air out of his chest when you grind down on him, trapping his throbbing erection between your bodies, lavishing him with a delicious kind of pressure he could only dream of before this moment. He moans, too loudly, pulling away from the kiss as his mouth falls open in abject ecstasy, but you pull him close again, wrapping his arms around your waist as you circle your hips against his in a never-ending onslaught of pleasure. He grits his teeth, trying to gain control of his traitorous body.

“It’s okay to let go, sir,” you must know what he’s thinking, whispering those words between labored breaths, “I want you to cum for me.” 

And he does, unwilling or unable to say no to anything you ask of him, the steady build of heat giving way to blinding light as you work him through his release. It’s been so long since he’s felt good, and it’s _never_ been like this. 

He hears you, when the roaring in his ears subsides, as you whisper such gentle praise in between your gasped breaths. A small part of him recognizes that he feels disgusting, sticky with sweat and his own spend, knows that it will probably seep into the fabric of your clothes if he doesn’t go clean himself off. 

He holds you tighter instead, pulling you into his chest, and he can feel your heartbeat echoing through his body, becoming his own. He never wants to let go.


	34. Kissing Practice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you can accurately chart my mental state based solely on how often I write College AUs. We’ve got some enemies (not pictured) to idiots/friends to lovers in the next part, and I couldn’t be more excited! 
> 
> Let me know what you think, feedback is always appreciated 💖
> 
> Armitage Hux x GN Reader / College AU 
> 
> Warnings: Language

“Have you ever . . . ?”

Armitage already knows he’s turning red, but his suspicions are confirmed when he catches his reflection in the small mirror sitting on the top of your desk. Unlike the rest of your room, which features a thin layer of clutter—picture frames, mugs full of pens, piles of hats and jewelry and accessories—on all flat surfaces, the desk is clear of everything but his computer and notebook, and the mirror. He wonders if you cleared everything else off for him before he arrived, but he pushes the thought away.

“No, I, uh-” he turns to you, searching for the least embarrassing words to finish the sentence, but his mind goes completely blank when he sees you, perched at the end of your bed. You sit casually, with one leg hanging over the edge, and you use the other to support your notebook as you tap your pen absentmindedly against your teeth. Your eyes, though, are completely and totally focused on him.

“It’s okay,” you say after a moment of waiting, saving him the embarrassment, “I haven’t either.”

That’s not what he expected. He can’t mask his surprise fast enough, so he leans into it instead, letting it show in his expression and bleed into his tone, “really?”

“I mean, once, but I don’t really count it. Spin the bottle, and I was, like, twelve or something—I don’t even remember.” You punctuate your sentence with a shrug before returning to your work.

Hux faces forward again—not that he’ll get any of his own work done—although he at least makes an attempt to look like he’s focused. He’s trying to figure out how you both arrived here—not just at this topic, but _here_. In your room. So . . . amiable. It’s not easy for him to forget how tenuous this friendship is. How long he had to wait for the biting, whispered remarks and glares from across the room to turn into something gentler—with less teeth. It took the two of you ages to learn to trust each other, but no time at all for him to forget why he was ever so wary of you in the first place.

“But still,” you break the silence, and Hux startles, “it would be nice to, you know, know what you’re doing . . . when the time comes.”

Hux furrows his brow. W _hat did that have to do with your friendship?_

You watch him closely as you wait for a response, chewing on your lip and he stiffens. _Oh._ You’re still talking about kissing.

His palms grow sweaty, and it’s getting harder and harder to keep his grip on his pen, but he hums in assent because it seems like the safest option; his mouth has gone dry.

“I just feel like most people have so much more, I don’t know, experience? I guess it’s stupid to stress out about it, but-” you heave a sigh, and he can feel your eyes on him, your gaze burning a hole in the side of his face, “-it’d be nice to figure it all out, you know, before it counts.”

Damn, now his mouth feels too wet—h _ow did that happen?;_ he has to swallow before he speaks, “Are you suggesting . . . “

“I don’t know. Would you- I mean, we could . . .”

There’s a heavy silence as he thinks about how he should respond. Armitage knows, without any thinking at all, that he’d like to say yes. He’s not too proud to admit, to himself at least, that he’s thought about it before, on occasion. Or maybe a little more than that.

The rational part of him is louder than he’d like.

It’s the rational part of him—the one that shares his father’s voice—that reminds him that he couldn’t _handle_ it. That he’ll always be a stupid, pining boy no matter what happens. And it feels . . . dishonest in a way, knowing that it would mean something different for him. A chance to have something he craves but hasn’t had the courage to ask for.

“Actually, you know what?” You’re speaking again before he gets the chance to, rushing to get all your words out “-It’s a really stupid idea. I don’t know why I even brought it up. You can just ignore me.” You close the textbook lying next to you with a harsh _whomp_ , running a hand down the side of your face. He knows what you’ll say next ( _I’m feeling pretty tired, maybe you should go)_ and there’s an unexpected pang in his heart. He can’t let this slip through his fingers.

“ _No_ ,” his tone is surprisingly assertive, and he adjusts it before he continues, unwilling to seem _too_ eager, “I mean, I think we should. Since, uh, since we’re friends.” He ignores the irritating thought at the back of his mind that reminds him he’s never kissed any of his _other_ friends.

“Right, it’s just . . . good practice.”

“And it’s not like it means anything.”

“Yes, exactly,” you’re gesturing a little wildly—the way you always seem to do when you get excited—before folding your hands in your lap, caging your fingers together to keep them under control. “ . . . so, do you want to come over here?”

“Oh, right.” Hux’s heart hammers against his chest as he arranges himself at the end of the bed next to you, resting his hands at his sides, hoping he shows more confidence than he feels.

You shift a little closer, turning to face him, and his entire body thrums. He’s never been so aware of his proximity to someone. Never felt his nerves alight like this, waiting for the first brush. There’s none yet; it’s an awkward dance as you move into each other, neither sure of the best way to begin. Although it’s becoming increasingly clear that neither of you know what you’re doing, he finds that inexperience doesn’t temper his excitement at all.

“I guess I could just-” you bring one hand to rest lightly against the flat of his cheek, the smooth pad of your thumb tracing soft lines over his skin. Your hand pulls him closer, until the tips of your noses are brushing, and he can smell the mint on your breath.

There’s a heartbeat’s pause, but no length of time could settle the growing fire that sparks over him in waves. He wonders if you can feel it, rolling off him, if you know the kind of effect you have.

Before he can ponder the question any further, you press your lips gently to his.

Oh _god_. Fuck. Your lips meet his, and immediately he’s overcome. Does it always feel this good to be kissed? He hopes so, since it doesn’t seem like he’ll get the opportunity to do this with you again. Your lips are softer than he had previously imagined, fitting between his own so perfectly. His hands clench to fists at his sides, his body unsure how to react to such a glorious feeling. Do _you_ feel as good as he does?

A dim flicker of doubt smothers his elation. Is he doing this right? Or are you just putting up with him, waiting for the moment it’s over? He’s hyper-aware of each point of contact, trying to read your reaction and coming up blank.

On instinct he presses his mouth to yours, hoping to yield _some_ kind of reaction, but he’s not thinking straight. He crushes his mouth into yours, much harder than necessary and regret pools in his lungs as you flinch away.

“I’m- I’m sorry,” he stumbles over his words, sure he’s ruined everything. Even though it pains him to say it, he knows he has to give you permission to get rid of him. “We can stop if-”

“No!” you interrupt him with wide eyes, placing a hand on his arm as if to hold him there. You both turn to stare, eyes lingering on the place where your hand meets his sweater. “I mean, it’s fine. I’m fine. That’s what practice is for, I guess,” you finally meet his eyes, leaning in again but he pulls back, pausing, not completely satisfied.

“Did I hurt you?”

“I was just startled, mostly, but I’m fine now. do you want to . . . keep going?”

Although he thinks you might be downplaying your pain for his sake, he leans closer, bridging the gap between the two of you with the gentlest pressure he can manage, allowing you to set the pace. You must have enjoyed it a little, he reasons, if you’re so willing to kiss him again.

He reads no hesitation in your body now—your fingers more solid against him as you run them gently over the hair at the back of his neck, and he lets out a shuddering breath in response.

“Is this alright?” you whisper the question against his lips and he nods, his nose brushing in lines over the skin of your cheek. You’ve pressed yourself closer to him, your chest against his, and he’s not sure if it’s your heartbeat he feels pounding against his skin or his own.

_This_ is natural, meant to be, even. The two of you move like you spend all your time wrapped up in each other. You kiss him as if you know him.

The thought emboldens him, and he holds you closer, his hand to your hip. The hem of your shirt slides away under his touch, your bare skin solid beneath his palm, warm and pliant and more than he could ever hope for. When your tongue drags gently against his bottom lip, when he feels the low moan that escapes your lungs, he’s sure there’s nothing in the world he wouldn’t trade to just stay like _this_.

The door slams open, loudly, but your roommate manages to spit out the words, “ _oh my god, I’m so sorry,_ ” before either of you think to pull away.

He sits up off you, shielding you slightly as you readjust your clothing, your hair and he tries his best to surreptitiously wipe his mouth off on the back of his hand. Your roommate sways slightly in the doorway, squinting at you with unfocused eyes—she’s a little more than a little drunk.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie, I didn’t know that you had, uh, company,” she says again, much louder than necessary before shifting to a stage whisper that both of you have no trouble hearing, “do you need me to go somewhere while you-”

“I was actually just leaving,” Armitage jumps from the bed, feeling the blush begin to spread. He runs an errant hand through his hair before throwing his notebook and computer into his bag as quickly as he can manage, halfway out the door and past your roommate before he pauses to turn back. 

He can still taste you on his lips as he looks at you, crowds of words trying to force their way out of his mouth, but he lets them die there. He’s not going to be selfish. He’s _not_ going to ruin this.

“I’ll . . . see you tomorrow in class?” Is what he says instead, and your shoulders sag—in relief, maybe—before you nod.

“Yeah, of course . . . I’ll see you tomorrow, Armitage.”

The door closes behind him with depressing finality, and he’s left alone in the dismal light of the hallway.

He’s at the staircase before he drops his bag off his shoulder, leaning back against the wall to catch his breath.

His fingers graze his lips without much thought, back and forth. It’s just skin against skin. He should feel _something,_ even a small fragment of what he felt with you. But there’s nothing now—almost the absence of feeling in memory’s wake.

Armitage huffs, pushing himself away from the wall, down the stairs and out the door into the cold night air. There’s no use in thinking this way. Because, no matter how he feels, he’ll never get to kiss you again.


	35. Sunshine pt. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CEO! Hux x Barista! Reader Modern AU
> 
> I got the idea for this part a while ago and chickened out from writing it up until now. I have no idea why writing smut manages to be 1000 times harder than regular writing. Hope you all enjoy, let me know what you think! 
> 
> Warnings: Smut (18+ only) oral sex (m receiving), language.

An eternity of black glass stretches towards the sky as you stand at the base of the First Order Enterprises building, looking up, and you can’t help but feel small and fragile knowing that Armitage is somewhere up there, miles and miles above you, while you’re still on the ground. 

You could go home. He doesn’t know that you’re here, and another bus would be arriving any moment. You could sit and wait by your phone all night until he messaged you again, sipping on the coffee you brought for him and hoping he couldn’t somehow read your desperation from the other side of the city.

You could spend all night lying on your back as the ceiling faded in and out of focus, thinking about the way his hands felt against your body when he kissed you in the park. 

Your fingers tighten on the coffee cup, relishing the burn, and your feet moving of their own accord, pulling you towards the door. Waiting is overrated.

The entrance slides open automatically when you approach, and you walk through quickly—before you can change your mind. You don’t make it very far into the lobby before you’re stopped in your tracks.

Just the lobby of the building is enormous—sleek and crowded and expensive, with high ceilings and shiny, black floors so clean you can see your reflection. You stare through the sea of people in front of you—every one of them rushing from place to place without even looking, their eyes on their phones or their watches as they juggle stacks of files or rummage through briefcases, like their bodies rely on autopilot to get them from place to place and they can’t be bothered to worry about something as banal as the direction in which they are walking. It’s an elegant, brutal building, made for elegant, brutal people. You’re sure you don’t belong.

You stand on your tiptoes to peer over the crowd, moving away from the doors in an attempt to find the place where your presence will be the least inconvenient. On the far side of the lobby, you can just make out the way to the elevators. Your heart rate speeds a little when you watch a few employees move past the gated area, flashing their ID cards at the white-clad security guards posted by each gate.

This, you had not anticipated. Thoughts of going back home again pull at the hem of your clothes, trying their best to turn you around and away from any potential embarrassment. The thought flashes by that you might try calling Armitage, but he hardly looks at his phone when he’s working, and you’d hate to take him away from his responsibilities for something so silly.

You scan the line of security guards, holding onto the thin threads of your determination, searching for any hint that one might be nicer than the others, might listen to your story and tell you how to find Armitage before his coffee gets cold. You press your lips together in a soft frown—none of them look like the understanding type. 

Someone jostles you, running into your shoulder, and you grab the cup of coffee in both hands to make sure that you don’t drop it. The man—whoever he is—gives you a sneer instead of an apology before rushing out the door behind you. Maybe it’s your own insecurities at play, but it feels like you’ve captured more than a little negative attention from the others in the building, and it’s not hard for you to guess why. You stand out compared to the rest of them—all in clean-cut suits and expensive accessories in varying shades of grey, and your comfy post-work attire is like starting to feel more and more like a big, fat target. You need to _do_ something.

You approach a guard at random, trying to look serious, _important_ , like you won’t take no for an answer. He stares you down, eyes narrowing more and more until you come to a stop before him.

“Excuse me,” you start, “but I’m looking for a … friend of mine who works in this building, and I was wondering-”

“Visitors must check in at the desk,” he cuts you off, already bored with your conversation, and you follow the line of his finger as he points you off to the side. Heat rises in your cheeks; there’s a desk and a sign that you had somehow missed, the word VISITOR posted in large, silver letters. You nod to the security guard and make your way through the passing crowd as quickly as you can manage, only stopping once you reach your destination.

“Excuse me,” you say, trying to get the attention of the employee manning the desk, an irritated looking man whose watch alone probably costs more than your entire wardrobe, “I need a visitor’s badge. I’m here-”

“All food deliveries are handled by security staff _only_ ,” he interrupts you without looking away from the screen in front of him, typing so fast his fingers start to blur together.

“Uh, I’m not here for a delivery,” you pause, but your silence is met without a response beyond the clicking of keys. You try again, “I’m here to visit a friend. Armitage Hux?”

The typing stops. Before you can process what that means, he’s met you with a sharp stare, the force of it so intense you have to resist the urge to take a step back. He watches you with a face made of indignation, eyes full of fire, before he reaches toward the phone on the desk and dials.

“I need security at the visitor’s desk, immediately,” he doesn’t blink as he speaks, like if he takes his eyes away from you for even a second you’ll vanish. You know your emotions must play out plainly on your face—confusion, fear, remorse—but none garner any sympathy.

“How many times do we have to tell you people? There is no story!” He leans over the desk, whispering with a vehemence that gives it the power of a shout, and the feeling of eyes that burns against you at all angles only serves to confirm that, whatever you had said, they were the wrong fucking words.

Fractured sentences bubble between your lips, but it’s no use. Before you can manage to speak around the lump in your throat there’s a hand at your elbow, pulling you towards the door and the coffee threatens to drop as the security guard ushers you without any kind of gentleness and more than a few whispered curses. You let him lead you, hardly able to make out the path in front of you now as hot tears pool in your eyes faster than you can blink them away. You shouldn’t have come.

“Hold it!” 

The voice calls out across the room, and you look for its owner, watching as the woman—a head taller than everyone else in the room—cuts a straight path through to you. The crowd parts for her, the eager members of the audience for your expulsion somehow reaching a higher pinnacle of curiosity now that a new player has been added.

You’ve only met Phasma once before, but you’d recognize her anywhere. Tall, powerful, and so fucking intimidating that your stomach clenches involuntarily—she walks towards you with long, determined strides, the metallic threads woven into her suit jacket catching the light. A soft huff of relief leaves your lungs. You’ve been saved.

“What are you doing?” Phasma stops in front of you but pays you no notice, staring down the security guard instead, who squirms. 

“We had a report from the visitor’s desk that someone was trying to gain entrance into the building, claiming to know Mr. Hux-” the guard pauses, stammering, his eyes flitting between you and Phasma, certain that they’ve made a mistake but unsure exactly what kind of a mistake it was.

“You’re no longer needed here,” Phasma says without clearing any of his confusion, “return to your post.” 

The guard hesitates, but his grip on your arm is slipping and when Phasma places her own hand on your shoulder, his fingers fall away from your skin and he retreats back to where he came from. The rest of onlookers move on as well, to your continued relief; you feel like you can breathe again. 

“I’m so sorry about that,” Phasma says as she turns to you, both hands on your shoulders in the closest approximation to a hug you think a person like her could manage. “We’ve had some close calls with the media in the past and my security staff is still on high alert. Does Hux know you’re here? ”

“Uh, no. I thought I’d drop by and surprise him,” you smile sheepishly, hoping it might hide the way that your voice still shakes as you shuffle out of her reach, “but now I’m thinking that it might have been a bad idea. I should probably-”

You’re unable to take another step towards the door before she’s got you in her grasp again, urging you gently towards the elevator. "Don’t be silly,” she says firmly, “I’m sure he’ll want to see you. ”

She breezes through the security line with you in tow, ushering you into the small elevator waiting area. A few other employees wait as well, shooting furtive looks at you as quickly as they can manage, although they don’t stare outright now that Phasma is around.

An elevator announces its arrival with a soft ding, the mirrored doors parting to reveal its sleek and surprisingly spacious interior. You wait as the crowd pours from the exit, scattering in all directions. When the elevator is finally empty, nobody moves.

“Come along,” Phasma is the first to step aboard, and the rest of the waiting passengers defer to you. After a pause, you follow her into the elevator, but nobody else boards.

The doors close behind you, and Phasma scans her badge before selecting the correct floor—the last button on the panel, and the only without a number. You scan the panel with your eyes; the highest number you can see is in the eighties. The ride is bound to take a little while.

“Let me take that,” Phasma grabs the coffee with both hands as soon as the elevator begins its ascent, waiting for you to release your hold on the cup, but your fingers refuse to relax.

“It’s alright, I’ve got it.”

“Please, you’re shaking.”

It’s not until she points it out that you manage to notice the tremble that seems to travel through your chest, or the way your breath shudders from your lungs. You drop your hands from the cup, brushing the back of one across your tear-sticky cheek.

“Oh, shit,” you wipe the rest of the tears from your face, doing your best to erase any sign of your earlier debacle, taking a few deep breaths to steady your heart.

“How do I look?” It’s an embarrassing question to ask a practical stranger, but a necessary one, since your reflection is blurred in the frosted metal of the elevator walls and you can’t walk into Armitage’s office looking teary-eyed. 

“Very lovely,” she says as she presses the coffee cup back into your hands, and although you think she might’ve said that just to be kind, you can’t help but feel warmer from the compliment.

“Can I ask you something?” you turn back to Phasma, and she nods, a little reticent. “When we were back in the lobby, you mentioned something about trouble with the media, and the other night, when Armitage and I were at dinner …” 

“Ah, yes, he told me about that this morning,” she says, leaning against the elevator wall and watching you with an appraising gaze, “how much did you know about Armitage, before you met him?”

“Nothing at all. I just knew that he worked here.” You leave out the other, more embarrassing things that you managed to notice, like the way he sometimes wore his watch with the face on the inside of his wrist, or the way his eyes reflected the light when you passed him his coffee. 

“Armitage only became the CEO of the company rather recently; his father held the position before him. Brendol had quite the reputation for causing scandals—mistresses, bribing politicians, crooked deals with his opponents, and the like. When his father passed and Armitage stepped into his place, there were a few who thought he might be the same as Brendol.”

“Oh . . is he?” Guilt collects in the palms of your hands; you shouldn’t even have to ask, but you can’t help it.

Phasma smiles. “Not in the slightest. But there was quite a bit of commotion surrounding Brendol’s death, and when the tabloids got wind of it, they went a little wild.”

You hum in response, trying to reason why the death of a CEO you’d never heard of before could cause such trouble for so many people. Phasma continues, misinterpreting your silence as some kind of doubt.

“Believe me, I worked for Brendol long before I had ever met Armitage. The two of them are nothing alike. That’s why the staff here are so defensive when it comes to protecting him—from the paparazzi and the like. He’s inspired quite a bit of loyalty in his time here.” 

Although you’re sure she’s not telling you everything, you have to admit that you don’t find the bit about loyalty surprising in the slightest. It didn’t take you long at all to realize that Armitage was incredibly dedicated to his work, and if you could see it so clearly, you’re sure his employees could as well. 

The elevator dings softly again, announcing your arrival at your destination, and you let go of any thoughts of paparazzi or overzealous security guards. You’re about to see Armitage again. _Finally_.

Phasma smiles, reading your excitement. “Hux’s office will be straight ahead, at the end of the hall. You won’t be able to miss it.”

“You’re not coming with me?”

“I have to go speak with my security team,” she replies, “make sure they’re all aware that you might be stopping by again.” The elevator door slides open, and she ushers you out with a nod of her head.

You exit, pausing just outside the door, “thank you for your help.”

“Don’t mention it,” she replies, and the door slides closed.

——————————————————————–

Armitage hasn’t checked his watch since the meeting began, but by his estimates, it’s been going on for _almost_ an eternity. 

Not that he’s truly paying attention. His mind has been wandering all day, occupying space across the street, playing guessing games with himself about what you might be doing. He wonders if you’ll still be at work once the meeting is over—if he could run down for a short break, bask in your presence for a few moments. He’d ask if you were free again tonight. If you wanted to see him. The thought of it puts his heart in his throat.

He could take you back to the park. Or to see a show. Would you like that? It might be a little tricky to find anything on Broadway on such short notice, but those kinds of barriers always seemed to melt away when you slid a crisp hundred dollar bill into the right person’s hands.

He wonders what show you’d like to see. He has no preference of his own—there’s no chance he’d be able to focus on the story. It seems like too great an opportunity to pass up, the chance to sit next to you for a few hours, so close together and in relative darkness. 

The rustle of papers fills the air, pulling Hux away from his thoughts. Thank god, the meeting is over, the rest of the attendees packing up their belongings and moving on to their other tasks. Armitage stands as well, checking his watch. Would he make it in time if he left now?

No matter, he’d try regardless.

“Excuse me, sir,” damn it, his assistant—a diminutive woman with kind features and trembling hands—blocks his path, up from her desk with a pad of notes—phone calls he missed during the meeting. 

He forces himself to listen, accepting his defeat with only a little anguish. He could always call you when he got back to his desk.

“And then they wanted to confirm that you’re available for a tour of the facilities on these days- oh my, who’s that?” 

Armitage looks up, sees you wandering through the office, and he’s sure he’s hallucinating. 

“Excuse me,” he brushes past her with a gentle hand on her shoulder, making his way to you, every question he has swallowed up in how good it feels to see your face again.

You don’t see him immediately, peering timidly through the bustle of desks in the main area of the floor, but your eyes light when they land on him, and then you smile again.

God, he’s missed that smile.

“Armitage,” you’ve met him halfway, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek in greeting, and he can hear the ripple of surprise that passes through the rest of the floor, the silence that follows. 

There’d be talk through the whole building by the end of the hour if he didn’t handle this carefully. Already he feels the eyes on him, knows without looking that every one of his employees is watching him with slack jaws and incredulous stares. “Why don’t we go to my office?” 

You nod, letting him lead the way. He cuts a path towards his office, only pausing to instruct his assistant to hold his calls.

He ushers you inside, watching you take in his office with an amused kind of amazement. It’s an impressive room—tall ceilings, modern in design but sparsely furnished. It’s the far wall, though, that’s most impressive, a floor-to-ceiling window made from one smooth pane of glass, overlooking the city.

“Very impressive,” you say as he shuts the door, securing some privacy for the two of you, and h blushes at the praise.

Armitage shifts his weight from foot to foot, unsure what to do next. He never expected to have you here, or at least, not so soon—although he had spent a little too much time this morning imagining all the ways he’d let you distract him from his work, if you _had_ been present—but now those fantasies seem a little foolish now. Childish even.

“I brought this for you,” you hand him the coffee cup, and he takes it out of habit, some strange kind of muscle memory that manages to relax him slightly.

“Thank you,” he takes a sip to avoid being rude although there’s no need for coffee right now—he feels wide awake. 

“I hope it’s not cold,” you say shyly, but he quells your worries with a shake of his head before setting the cup on the desk and pulling you into his arms.

“I’m glad to see you.”

“I’m glad to see you, too.” You pull out of the embrace too soon, moving towards the far window to admire the view.

“I don’t think I’d be able to work with a view like this—it’s beautiful,” you say as Armitage finds his way to your side. He nods in agreement, although he’s sure that if you asked him right now, he wouldn’t be able to name a single building visible from his office window. In this moment, all of his thoughts are consumed by you.

Your head rests gently against his shoulder, your hand wrapping around the sleeve of his jacket and his breath stills in his lungs.

“Kiss me again,” you whisper, so quiet that a part of him believes he’s imagined the words. But still, you’re moving towards him, your hand at the base of his neck and the gap between you is bridged.

In all his life, Armitage has never thought _this_ much about being kissed. He’s sure it crossed his mind fairly often in his earlier years, but those juvenile fantasies faded long ago, replaced with a different kind of fervor that granted him much more success. Work, for so long, had been his life. His obsession, even. And now he’d give all of it up if it meant he could have his lips on yours for one moment longer.

You press yourself more fervently against him, pulling him close with every part of you, and he gasps at your insistence, parting his lips just in time to let your tongue slip into his waiting mouth. You let him taste you as his hands wander, and the pounding in his ears is not so loud that he can’t hear you moan.

It’s no less exciting when you pull away.

You hold his eye contact, slipping one hand between your bodies, tracing the line of buttons down the front of his shirt, stopping just at the edge of his belt. You tap your finger against it three times, the gentle touch sending tremors up his spine.

“Am I being too forward?” you ask with a smile, but there’s an anxious undercurrent in your tone, like you’re afraid to displease him. As if that were a remote possibility. 

Still, his gaze flickers to the wall that separates the two of you from the rest of the world; he can’t help but feel like this isn’t an offer he should accept. He’s at _work_ , and his employees are no doubt waiting for any kind of disturbance beyond his office door, desperate for some fresh office gossip, and … it’s no use. Whether it’s a bad idea or not, his traitorous body responds in the affirmative, the weight of his growing erection pressing solidly against your leg.

“I mean, if, uh, it’s alright with you, I-” your smile only grows more prominent with his floundering, and then you’re kissing him again.

There’s little restraint for either of you now. His ears are filled with the sounds of rough hands and heavy breathing, broken by the gasp that punches from his lungs when your hand meets his length over the fabric of his pants, throbbing against your palm because there is no part of him that won’t respond to your touch. 

And then the pressure is gone again; you’re loosening the not in his tie instead, pulling him toward his desk, to his chair. He sits with too much urgency, the back of it bumping against his desk with a soft clatter. You both pause, grinning sheepishly at each other, equal parts embarrassed and pleased with this sense of urgency, the way you want each other.

The pads of your fingers trace soft lines over the skin of his throat with the lightest of touches and he gasps like he’s drowning, his heartbeat erratic. You press on, parting the material of his shirt to admire more of the pale, freckled skin underneath.

“Has anyone ever told you,” you ask, and now it’s your lips that he feels against his skin, the softness of your breath as you whisper in between kisses that trace the same path as your fingers, “that you’re kind of beautiful?” 

God, what kind of a question is that? Just the thought that you might find him beautiful has him blushing down to his collar bones. How can you expect him to respond? You pause, waiting for an answer, fully seated on your knees in front of him, looking up through soft lashes.

“I- I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, and he means it, but his sincerity is undercut by the breathiness of his whisper, the jump in his voice as you stroke your palms up the inside of his thighs.

You press your lips together in response, undoing the buckle on his belt with swift fingers before grazing your hand over his length, the tenting of his pants becoming more prominent in response to your touch … before you pull away.

“Fucking tease,” he mutters under his breath, and then regrets it, hoping he’s not being too forward with that kind of language. Your grin turns mischievious when you place yourself back on his lap, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and leaning in close—pressing yourself against him everywhere but the place he needs you most. Your breath is hot and moist against his ear, your lips soft on the skin of his ear as you whisper your next words.

“I’ve always thought you were beautiful, Armitage. Since the moment I first saw you.” And fuck, those words feel like a release in their own right. 

You’re back on your knees, before he’s processed it all, pressing his thighs apart to make space for yourself, your hands freeing him from layers of clothing before you take his cock in the palm of your hand, and he’s consumed the pleasure of your touch.

You start with a few gentle strokes, exploring the veins and ridges of him, running your thumb over the head and watching as he trembles in response. You keep your eyes on his as you lean in, wetting your lips with exaggerated slowness before taking him into your mouth. 

“Fuck-” you’ve barely taken the head between your lips before his hips thrust against you involuntarily, eliciting a soft gag from the back of your throat at the unexpected pressure. He forces himself back into the seat, chest heaving from the effort, “I’m s-so sory, it’s just been, oh god, so long.” 

Christ, now’s probably not the best time to tell you that, but you don’t seem to mind, pressing your tongue flat against the underside of his dick, licking a hard line up to the head before swirling your tongue around the sensitive skin there.

He lets his head fall against the back of the chair, his eyes closed, but he grips the armrests with enough pressure to turn his knuckles white. You’ve managed to find the perfect amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm without any direction from him, pumping your hand steadily over the base of his cock where your mouth can’t reach and hollowing out your cheeks.

“So good,” he manages to mutter, aware that if he can’t offer you direction he can at least provide encouragement, “just, god, just like that.” 

You smile around his dick, and just the thought of it has him too close to coming undone. He releases his grip on the chair, pressing his knuckles against his teeth and biting down, trying to focus more on the pain than the pleasure, trying to keep himself from babbling, or god forbid, cumming too soon.

You must recognize his struggle, because you pull back a little, focusing more attention on the head with soft licks and kisses, cleaning away the shiny globs of pre-cum with your tongue.

“Is this alright?” you ask, watching him with knowing eyes, enjoying the way he’s crumbling in response to your touch.

“You have no idea-ah.” He manages to get most of the words out before you take him deep in the back of your throat. 

His breathing quickens, brow furrowing as he tries to stave off his orgasm for just a moment longer, but you’re so good, and you know just what he wants, and he can’t hold on any longer.

“I’m, shit, I’m going to-” he can’t even get the words out, not when your mouth is so wet, so hot, so god damn _tight_ around him. He’s spilling into the back of your throat, vision going white as feverish streaks of pleasure move through his core, and he’s sure he’ll never recover from an indulgence so complete. God, is there any part of you that doesn’t make him feel like he’s burning from the inside out?

He’s only half aware as you release him from your mouth, wiping your lips across the back of your hand to clean off any stray spit, and he leans close to kiss you before you can clear it all away, because he’s pleasure-drunk and you-drunk and he wants to know what he tastes like on your lips.

He’s still breathing like a damn marathon winner when he presses his forehead to yours, taking you in.

“Thank you,” he whispers, even though he knows it’s strange, and you laugh breathlessly, “I think I needed that.”

“No problem,” you press another kiss to his lips, slow and soft. He wonders what he ever did before he met you.

Oh, right—he worked. Hux comes back to reality with an almost overwhelming amount of self-control. He has to get back to work. You seem to recognize his struggle, standing from your place on the floor, brushing your hands over your knees.

“I should probably go,” you say, fixing your clothes, your hair. He takes one of your hands in both of his, pressing a soft kiss to the tips of your fingers.

“I want to see you again,” he says, “tonight. My apartment, maybe? We could order dinner.”

“I’d like that, Armitage,” you press another kiss to his cheek. He walks you to the door. 

He pulls you against him, pressing one last, lingering kiss to your waiting lips. He’d see you again tonight—and he’d make sure it was well worth your time.


End file.
